


Burn Like a Roman Candle

by spn_beatkid



Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Codependance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Post-Stanford, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Sad Sam Winchester, Self Harm, Stanford Era, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, hunters au, mentions of selfharm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:59:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8566660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spn_beatkid/pseuds/spn_beatkid
Summary: "Did you just try to quote Kerouac?" his brother chuckles and huffs a warm wet breath into his neck. He shudders. Doesn't even try to hide it. "Did I?" He feels drunk.· · ·Kinda one-shot-ish stories of the brothers picked throughout the years. Not in the right order.· · ·Inspiration taken from Jack Kerouac's The Sea is My Brother which the boys might quote on occasion.





	1. Barrooms

Here in the rancid mustiness of a rip-roaring New England barroom, walls thin, place dedicated to drinking beer, only there are more roofs than you think. More roofs than you think, my brother, more roofs than you think.  
\- Jack Kerouac

Dean Winchester's hand darts over his face. A quick, desperate movement. Maybe to hide his tears. Who cares anyway? 

It is cold in New England, several degrees under the freezing point and maybe this weather would've been bearable if there had been snow, but it hasn't rained for days and all the cold does is cut into his throat when he breathes in and sends stinging tears to his eyes. He can feel his brother shivering on the seat next to him, the heater of the Impala already had given up when they had driven through Indiana. And he shivers as well. Not as much because of the cold, but because of the blood slowly drying on his sailor jacket. Sam's blood. His brother's blood.

His hands grab the steering wheel tighter, showing up white with an almost inaudible crack-pop. Fuck. His hands are shaking now. Visibly shaking. He almost misses the gear-shift. Fuck fuck. He doesn't need this. Not now. His mind shutting down.

He can feel something clawing at his insides, at his guts, at the blood-red part of his skin, at his heart that is thump-thumping away. His body locks up, foot pressing down on the gas. Teeth clenched, heart falling out of his chest, mind nothing but white noise. "Dean?" He only realizes how hard he is actually panting when his brother's warm hand carefully falls onto his arm. Burning him up. Eating him up where it touches him.

His eyes are focused on the road, not looking at his brother once because if he would, if he would. "Dean, you okay?" his brother asks, voice still soft but a little rough around the edges. From when he, when he. God, there had been so much blood. Too fucking much. 

Dean manages a quick nod. Neck stiff with clenched muscles, heart still beating too fast. The fog has lifted enough from his brain to make him realize one thing: this is a panic attack. Proper. He can't help but let a hysteric giggle bubble out from between his lips. Fucking hell.

Of course, of course Sam doesn't believe he is fine for a single second. Who is he kidding? He can't speak. Not yet, throat locked tight. It is all too much. Just thinking about it. It has happened way too often already. But now, not now, not now that he. That he knows.

His eyes fall onto a sign that shows the direction to a bar, somewhat thirty miles up the exit. He takes it, without even thinking twice. God, alcohol is just what he needs right now. Sam sighs next to him, most probably annoyed at their change of destination. Normally, Dean would've teased him about it. Now, he is happy. Happy his brother is breathing, is even able to sigh and get annoyed.

It takes them another fifteen minutes, Dean speeding up the road with almost twice the speed he is allowed. Who the fuck cares? He needs to get out of here. Out of the small universe the Impala is. Suddenly too hot, too small, too stuffed with... Sam. Too much.

The bar is like any other. Thank God. The familiarity of it soothing him. Even though his legs are still shaking like mad when he walks in. Even though he had barely managed to push the door open. He is drained. More than he'd ever been. Sam walks towards the back door that leas to the toilets "Imma-" he says, but Dean already waves him off, plopping down onto one of the bar stools.

Five seconds later, the waitress truts over to him. He clutches his own hands in his lap, so nobody will notice him shaking. The girl's face lights up as her eyes fall on him. He glances up at her. She is nice. Dark curls flowing over her shoulder. Chocolate skin. Mischivious sparkle in her eyes. Long fingers. Mmm. Long fingers, God. She would do. Anything would do tonight. Anything that would distract him from what had happened, distract him from Sam.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, whiping her hands on an already-wet towel. It is checked, almost like Sam's stupid flannel shirts. Fuck. He can't, he needs to stop. "Uh, a beer 'n a burbon, please," Dean rasps, voice low. Still too afraid she might hear the tremble in it. The panic forever bubbling right under his skin.

"Rough day, huh?" the girl asks, as she pushes his drinks onto the counter in front of him. He downs the burbon in one gulp before answering her. The burn is good. Makes him feel more alive than he has for hours. Still, he is too sober, the panic right there. At least he feels calm enough to use his voice again. "Could say it like that," he grunts and the burbon is refilled without him asking for it. He gives her a smile that lacks brilliance compared to his usual ones. Doesn't reach his eyes. But he knows he is good-looking. He knows it is enough for her.

Sam takes way too long on the toilet and when he comes back, Dean is way too drunk, on what must be his fifth shot and second beer. He had kinda lost count. Doesn't matter anyway. Only the fuzzy feeling in his stomach matters. The slightly blurred edges of his vision. The stir in the air every time he moves his head too quickly. The panic isn't gone. It is dulled down, buried somewhere deep inside him. It doesn't even bubble up when his eyes fall on Sammy's already healing wounds.

"Heya, Sammy!" he slurs, arm out to tug his brother onto the stool right next to his. Arms touching. Legs touching. Too much touching. But he doesn't care, not this time. The warmth spreading through him better than any alcohol. Sam better than any... anyone, really.

"Sammy," he says softly, gesturing towards the girl who he has been talking to since he put a foot in here. "'s Kalsey. Kalsey, 's Sammy, my kid brother." God, he is tipsy. And he loves it and he's downing another shot. It burns up his throat real good, almost has him moan with the feeling. He gets like this when he drinks. At least he thinks he does.

"I'm sorry. Has he been bothering you?" He hears his brother ask and snorts. Too loud of a sound in the crowded place. Suddenly the air is almost too stale. He breathes hard again. Kalsey gives his brother a quick but meaningless smile. "Nah, 's fine. He's charmin'." She practically drools. Dean can feel heat rushing through his body. Yes, yes. This is what he wanted. To think about her. Not to think about Sammy. At least for a little, at least for the night.

His flat hand hits the counter in two loud bangs, startling Sam next to him. "A beer for the kid as well," he proclaims loudly. "An' something a li'l stronger." Kalsey turns around, eyes sparkling at Dean. Sam just groans next to him. "Dean, please don't." And his brother leans away from him, skin leaving skin. Dean sits there, suddenly touch-starved. He wants the warmth back, but he doesn't say anything. It's always been like this. Him not saying anything.

He still gets angry, though. Angry at Sam for not seeing how much he needs him. How much he needs him to touch him. Especially now that, now that this has happened. He takes up another shot, brain hot with panic and anger and relief and fear again. "What's the problem, Sammy?" he hisses. "'S not like we got nothin' to celebrate." His voice is bitter now. He forces Sam's shot into his hand, clinking their glasses together.

Sam sits next to him like he's a doll. Almost... lifeless. Like he was, like he was. Dean's breath hitches in his throat again. "Dean, I don't wanna. Can we please leave?" Sam's voice is calm but resolute. And he knows his brother. Knows he's about to flip. So he pushes it, 'cause that's what brothers do, right?

"You know what, jackass?" he grunts. "If you wanna be a spoilsport, imma just have a nice evenin' with this beauty here an' you can go play hermit crab in the car. Or whatever. Whatever, really." The last sentence is muttered under his breath, only for him to hear. It's not meant for Sam, it's meant for him. Because it doesn't matter what he does. It's all... whatever, really. Kalsey gives him a flirty smile and he shines one of his thousand-watt smiles back. Whatever, Sam.

And Sam flips, just like he expected him to do. Jumps from his stool, almost knocking his drinks off the bar with his elbow. "You're such an asshole!" he hisses. It reminds Dean of when Sammy was a teenager. Always threw tantrums, stubborn little guy. And he thinks of lean half-grown Sam with shaggy hair and those long fingers. His brain is one big fog of SamSamSam and he needs to shut it out somehow. He needs to. Needs to.

Sam doesn't know what's going on in Dean's head, continues throwing insults at him. "You wanted to come here! And I let you! Even though I'm fucking... I nearly fucking died, Dean!" Thank God Kalsey is currently at the other end of the counter, pouring beer into some mountain-man's glass. "I need you, for once! One fucking time in my life! And you decide that fucking some random bar chick is more important! You know what? Fuck you!" Suddenly, his shoulders slump down and he sounds drained. Just done. "Imma go sleep. Just... do whatever you want. I don't even care."

Whatever, Sam. Dean thinks bitterly as he watches his brother leave the bar. And then he is alone with his sixth shot and his drunk thoughts and damn, he's not drunk enough. He looks at his fingers, they're shaking again. Maybe he should try something else. Cigarettes. Or maybe some Tuinal or Medomin. Pretty sure he still has some tucked away somewhere.

Kalsey is still taking orders from some other guys. He is alone with his thoughts for now. Too lonely. And it is too much. He realizes then. This is something bigger. Bigger than them. He has heard it in Sam's voice. He can't just stay away until four a.m. and then walk drunkelny into their motel room. He can't just climb under Sam's covers and tug him close to his body and everything will be all forgive and forget. Not this time. He can't let Sam sleep in the car. Not with those wounds. Can't stand the thought of simply his brother being outside and him beimg inside. Apart. God, he is fucking selfish. He is an asshole. But he loves Sam.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. It has made its way into his thoughts without him noticing. He needs to get it out. Get rid of it. He can't. Can't. Dean claws at his hair, nails scratching over his scalp in punishment. Maybe they draw blood. He's not sure. He doesn't care. His breath gets stuck in his throat. He needs to get out. Get out into the fresh air and and. Tears threaten to pool in his eyes and he's up. Up and away. Fast as he can. He hears Kalsey calling after him but he doesn't give two shits.

He's out there in a matter of seconds. Old wodden door crashing behind him in the hurtful silence. Sammy. Sammy's standing in front of the car, back to him, shoulders tugged down. He looks too fucking small for his height. Like his body somehow grew up faster than him. Dean can feel it. Can feel the calm spread in his chest. Fucking hell, has it always felt like this? So safe and sound.

He can't really tell if Sam's crying or just shaking because of the cold and his brain is still way too dizzy for this. But he has to make sure. That his baby brother is okay. So he walks up to the car, startling Sam with the scratch-shuffle-drag of his boots on the pavement. His brother wheels around, hair all over his face. He takes a few steps back, looking at Dean wide-eyed, like. Like he's a dangerous animal prying on him. Sam's mad at him. He knows and he can't bear the thought.

The cold is clawing at his body again, making his limbs go numb, nose red and breaths visibly huffing out of his mouth. He shudders. Because he's freezing and because of the dark looks Sam gives him from under his bangs. More because of the looks, though. "Sammy," Dean whisper-breathes. He knows his brother has heard it. More felt than heard it, but anyway. He knows that his brother gets soft whenever he calls him that. It's almost too intimate for two brothers. Then again, they have always been. Too intimate.

"What do you want, Dean?" Sam huffs out, little clouds leaving his mouth. God, he looks so alive with his cold-red cheeks and his chest rising and falling. He looks so damn good. Panic rises in Dean's chest, he gnaws at his bottom lip until he draws blood. "I'm sorry," he settles with. Finally. "Sorry for being a jerk earlier." He hates apologies. God, he sucks at them. He's a lousy brother. He wants to say more. So much more. But he can't, his throat closed shut with too many emotions. Emotions he doesn't know how to deal with. And he can feel those fucking tears again.

He whipes his hand over his face quickly. A desperate move, maybe to hide his tears. Who cares, anyway?

Sam still looks too old. Drained. "'S fine, Dean." His name tips from his brother's lips just like that. Like it's nothing. And it hurts, more than he fucking cares to admit. Sam runs his hand over his stubble, just like he did a few seconds ago. They're mirrors of each other, both like a deer caught in the headlights. "It's so typically you. I'm used to it."

Sam turns around to open the door of the passenger seat, but just as he is about to climb in, Dean's rough voice holds him back. "Used to what?" he rasps out. He panicks. NoNoNo. This conversation can't end like this. Like all of their usual conversations. Can't end in three days of silence. This is bigger.

Sam sighs once again. Beautifully so. God. "That you... you don't care. That it's more important to you to fuck your brain out than how your brother is. It's fine." He draws in a shaky breath. "It's been like this for a while now. I'm used to it. It doesn't hurt anymore." Not like it used to. Is the unvoiced addition. And Dean can't help but wonder why Sam suddenly is so brutally honest with him. And why he is so brutally wrong. And doesn't seem to realize. This time, he can't hold back the tears waternig his eyes. Doesn't want to, somehow.

His hands clamp at his mouth, scared of what he might say. What he might reveal. "God, Sammy," he groans, shaking his head vehemently. It's still spinning. Forever spinning with his brother nearby. "Do you have any idea how... You are. You are the most important person in my life. No one ever." He doesn't know what to say, stuttering around for words, breath coming in sharp draws into his lungs. Don't panic. Don't panic. "You nearly died today." And that is where his voice breaks, a tear freeing itself from his lashes. He whipes it away quickly.

Sam looks concerned, slowly traipsing towards him. He can smell him. The warmth and the coffee and the leather seats and the books. "I was. In there, Sammy. That's what I do. That's how I deal with shit. But, but... I couldn't. It was like. Too much. It was wrong, felt wrong. It was like there were too many realities and I'd somehow lost count. The room... That bar, it had too many roofs, Sammy, too many roofs an' an'." He stops himself there. Right in the middle of the sentence, hyper aware of the panicky squeak in his voice. Of how he doesn't make sense, not even to himself.

And Sammy is so close. So close all of a sudden. And he breathes him in like a spring day. Fuck, he's so gone. So drunk. And suddenly Sam's arms are around him. There's warmth and that smell and it's all too much. His legs buckle in, the only thing keeping him up is Sam's strong arm around his waist. His hand flutters over his brother's chest. Stupid fucking flannel shirts.

"Did you just try to quote Kerouac?" his brother chuckles and huffs a warm wet breath into his neck. He shudders. Doesn't even try to hide it. "Did I?" He feels drunk. Feels like he's goddamn eighteen years old again. "Uuh, I don't... dunno." He manages to breathe out, actually not sure if his drunk brain had done it on purpose. He knows that Sam understands, though.

He nuzzles his nose into the nape of Sammy's neck, right inbetween soft strands of brown hair. He breathes into Sam, breathes him in. Doesn't wanna let go. There's fire. Right at the nape of his neck where Sam's brushing his long fingers through Dean's military-short strands. And it feels too fucking good. And all he can hear for a second, all both of them can hear for a second, is the too-fast thump-thump of his heart.

"You don' know how scared I was. When I. I found you there. There was so much. Christ, so much blood." Dean can feel Sam's body lock up tighter at the memory of it. He regrets bringing it up. At the same time, he doesn't. He forever wants to stay here. Cold biting at his back, his front curled up in his Sam-cave. Jesus, sometimes you wouldn't beliebe he was the older brother.

"You wanna go find a motel?" Sam asks and he nods into his shoulder, sighing audibly when the warmth of his brother's arms and chest leaves his body. He wishes he could say: stay. Just beg for Sam to never stop touching him. He won't though. But he smiles a little smile when Sam forces him onto the passenger seat, giving only little resent.

In the end, Sam drives along a dark highway, hand only leaving Dean's to shift gears once in a while. It always comes right back. They don't talk. Don't need to. Something has changed between them. For the better, he hopes. And they both know they will only need one bed tonight, but take a room with two out of habit.


	2. Brotherhood

I cannot feel a glow of brotherhood. It has all gone too far beyond me. And I cannot feel what you feel.  
\- Jack Kerouac

Sam is happy. Kinda. As happy as he can be. Fresh morning air is pouring through his window and he turns around, hogging the blankets around him. He likes this. Likes the taste of early spring mornings in South Dakota. Not anywhere in South Dakota, though. Just at Bobby's. He yawns and turns arount, feet getting all tangled up in the sheets.

He's getting too tall for his age. He knows that. Knows it because of his dangling limbs, because of the awkward swing he has to his movements, because of the growth pains throbbing in his legs and spine. He barely fits into any of his clothes from last year and his dad keeps and keeps on complaining that he has to buy him new stuff all the time.

Another reason he's happy right now. Dad. Dad's not fucking here. Hasn't been for weeks now and for once can't ruin a perfectly good holiday. Sam's finally done sorting his legs out, sighing at the calming cool under his ribcage, where his skin meets the part of the matress he hasn't slept on for most of the night. His eyes fall onto the bed next to his, the lump cradled up in it.

It's stupidly childish, and Sam knows, but he and Dean still share a room whenever they're at Bobby's place. Even though there are plenty of them. It almost seems like Bobby had built this house with the intention of raising dozens of kids there. But it is empty most of the time, hollowed out. The only kids Sam has ever seen here are him and his brother. His brother.

His eyes dart over the blonde scruff of hair sticking out from under Dean's blanked. The soft rising and falling of it. Sam likes Dean best when he sleeps. He can't be mean then, doesn't mess up his hair or tie his shoelaces together or put soap on his toothbrush. Sam sighs, looking at his brother who twists and turns in his sleep, throwing almost half of the blanket off of himself in one quick motion.

Sam almost thinks he's awake. Ready to snap his head back under the covers so Dean won't notice him looking. He'd only tease him about it. It's a defense mechanism, Sam has figured out this much by now. Dean doesn't like being looked at. Being smiled at and least of all being praised for anything. Doesn't matter what. He always squirms then, ready to get out of the situation as quickly as possible.

Sam doesn't get it. He likes to look at his brother. Just like he does now, listening to his even and deep breaths. He likes to look at his milky skin that just gets burned in the sun but never dark. At his freckles that make up the most interesting constellations (He's pretty sure he found Orion's Belt on Dean's shoulder once). At his mouth that always shines with the wet slick of his tongue darting over it. At his sandy-sandman light hair.

He looks at his brother and feels a tumble in his stomach. A clench in his chest. Huh. That's weird. And new. And feels kinda good. He can't tear his eyes from the tight stomach muscles that are barely visible under Dean's blanked. God. Sam's breath hitches, caught in his throat. He has to force himself to turn away. But he has to. Has to.

The tight feeling is still there, right in the center of his stomach, shortly above his navel. He presses a hand to the place and presses, presses, presses. The feeling won't move. Doesn't change. Maybe he should ask Bobby for some Aludrox later today. Maybe his stomach couldn't handle the steak he had yesterday.

Then again, all he does lately is eat, forever starving. Probably because of the growth spurts. Dean teases him because of that. All the time. Even though he still eats way more than Sam ever would. 

He can barely see the clench of Dean's stomach muscles under the blanket but he knows they're there. Knows how they feel because sometimes Dean tackles him in the summer heat when they're both shirtless. Sam sighs, listens to the thump-tud of his heart that suddenly feels like it has climbed up too high in his throat, choking him. He has to turn around. Turn away. Tear his eyes off his brother.

Sam is lost in his thoughts, almost asleep again, in such a dream-like state he can't get a grip on what exactly is on his mind. It's everything and nothing at once. That's when he hears the bed next to his squeak, listens to his brother getting up. Suddenly, he's all awake again, muscles clenched with tension. His eyes barely show above the seam of his blanket, closed to slits so he can pretend to be asleep if Dean looks over. But he watches. Watches.

Watches his brother get up and traipse towards the door, on his way to the bathroom. This has become somewhat of a ritual to Sam over the last few months: pretending to be asleep but really watching Dean. Every morning.

And he can see it, see what he's been waiting for. Dean doesn't sleep naked, never did. It's probably some weird hunter-thing. Whenever they're with dad he even sleeps in his everyday clothes. Dad does so as well. Sam never sleeps in his clothes. Maybe because he's not a hunter yet. He wishes he was, God, wishes he was like Dean. So brave and. And. But his big brother always makes sure he doesn't ged involved. Devil knows why.

But at Bobby's Dean seems to feel comfortable enough - homey enough - to sleep in nothing but a pair of checkered boxer briefs. And yes, maybe that's where Sam's new fascination with checkered button-downs comes from. And right now, Dean walks towards the corridor, hands dangling sleepily by his sides, in nothing but his boxers. And Sam can see it clearly, his morning wood pressing right next to his left thigh.

Sam sighs a sound so delicate it is inaudible to anyone but him and the hand pressing on his stomach wanders lower and lower until it's pressing right into his crotch. So sweet. And Dean is gone and Sam knows he shouldn't do this. He's way too young for this, only ten years old. No wait. His half-closed eyes fly open in realization. He's eleven. As of today.

It's the second of May and it's Sam's birthday. He can't help but smile, sunlight catching in his lashes. Eleven. That age seemed so far away just yesterday and now it just is here. Simply is. He doesn't feel any different. Any more grown-up. But his father had promised him this: "Sonny, when you're eleven, imma take ya on your first hunt. Jus' like I did with Dean here." And he had ruffled through his hair playfully and finally, finally. Finally he would be like Dean.

He could hear his brother come back with heavy thumps of his bare feet on the old wooden floor before he saw the door handle turn. Quickly, he buried his head into his pillow again, pretending to be sound asleep. This was a game they had played since he could remember. Sam waking up because Dean woke up or the other way round. It doesn't matter really, they always wake up together. But one of them pretending he is still asleep, letting the other one wake him carefully, almost lovingly. Like a mother would.

Sam tenses up when he hears Dean walk towards his bed. Soon soon. The tips of Dean's careful fingers drag the blanked down a little, long middle finger scratching at his shoulder lightly. Suddenly the black behind Sam's eyelids becomes glowing orange-red with the sun shining on them.

Dean's hand lingers flat on his hair, spread out almost completely, warmth floating through Sam's head. He doesn't move. "Sammy, wake up," Dean more whispers than says close to his ear. He doesn' move, wants to keep like this for a little longer. "Sammy." Dean's fingers push against his shoulder slightly, making him want to squirm with the touch. Still, he doesn't move.

Dean sighs and gives his shoulder a little push. Not too rough, but still too rough. He can feel him walk away. NoNo, this is not. "Sam, cut the crap. I know you're awake and I'm starvin'. So can you please just get up and move downstairs?" 

Sam's eyes fly open in a matter of seconds, glad his face is still tugged away from his brother. Dean has ruined it. This is not how it works, he is supposed to, supposed to. They have been doing this for forever, it is his favourite thing in the morning and Dean has ruined it.

And the worst part about this? There hasn't been a quiet "Happy birthday." or a small, crappily wrapped present pushed into his hands with a little smile. Like it is their secret. Like it is theirs. Sam tries to swallow the tears he feels building up in his throat, tries to un-clench his teeth. He knows it is childish to cry over something this stupid. It's not like anybody else ever cares about his birthday. It's not like it matters.

Only that it always did to Dean. Until now. Sam jumps up, can't be here any longer, and sprints through the corridor, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. He grabs at the sink to not fall to his knees. Fucking stupid. This is fucking stupid. He whipes at his eyes. Once, twice. And can't help but feel disappointment when he realizes Dean won't come after him. Like he usually does.

He wonders when his brother has suddenly stopped caring and slips on the clothes from yesterday he finds on the floor. It's not like he has any other options. He has so few clothes, they easily fit into one small duffel and currently, they are all ripped or smeared with dirt or simply too small.

When he returns to their room Dean is gone. He sits down on the bed, head low, bangs hanging sadly in front of his eyes. His heels are kicking against the frame of the bed. Soothing thump-thump-crashes make him realize he will probably get bruises from this. He doesn't care at the moment, can't tear his messy thoughts from his brother.

His finger is in his mouth, teeth gnawing at the nail until he gets a good grip and then pulling pulling pulling. Until he tastes blood. He hisses at the pain in his suddenly pulsing finger. He should stop doing this. Biting his nails all the time. It's something toddlers do. But that's exactly how he feels at the moment: like a toddler. Lost.

"Sam!" he hears Bobby's voice call from downstairs. It sounds like whiskey and barbeque and too many broken-down cars. It sounds like a father is supposed to sound. He sighs. As much as he would like to just slip under his blanked again - the day's already bad enough as it is - he knows he can't ignore Bobby. Or disobey him. He doesn't have it in him.

"Sammy-boy!" He hears him call again, almost impatiently this time, and sighs. He gets up and trots down the angled staircase. Dean's probably down there, too. Dean, birthday-ruiner galore. He can feel his feet slowing down on the last few steps, eyes widening.

Bobby grins the brightest grin he is able to wear under that scruff of his, baseball cap forever on his head. Sam's breath hitches. Not because of what Dean and Bobby think, though. Dean and Bobby think it's because of the big present on the table, nicely wrapped this time.

Sam knows, though. Knows that it is because of Dean. Of course it is. Green eyes staring right at him, coffee mug in hand. Dean is wearing his fucking shirt. His. He had bought it only a few days ago at some thrift shop. It was way too big on Sam, having a shark printed over its chest, "White Shark Experience" written in small letters next to it and in big red writing "Survivor" printed underneath it all. He had liked it somehow. But God, now that Dean was wearing it. It looked so good on him, spanning tight over his muscled chest. It feels like he owns a part of Dean now, has marked it as his.

"You wearin' my shirt?" he asks, raising an eyebrow like it is a serious question. Dean looks down his front. He glows. Golden boy. "Huh," he finally nods. "Yeah, din't have any of my own no more." Sam doesn't tell him that he just used a double negative, so, technically, he just said he still had shirts. Doesn't this time. He only just feels like they've gone back to brother. To not-birthday-ruiner.

Sam walks into the kitchen and when he is standing right in front of the table Dean messes up his hair with his free hand and beams. "Happy birthday, baby brother." Sam just grunts. He still hasn't forgiven him completely for earlier this morning. He gets that it was supposed to be a surprise. That him and Bobby had planned this on the long run. Still, Dean had been unnecessarily mean. Without intending to. But still.

"What is it, grumpling-dumpling?" Dean asks jokingly and Sam shakes his hand off his head annoyedly. He hates Dean calling him that. "Happy birthday, kid." Bobby adds, smile still tugging at the edges of his mouth. That man doesn't smile enough.

"C'mon, open it up." Dean nods towards the present and Sam doesn't have to be asked twice. He downs on it, ripping at the paper anywhere he can get a grip at. "Jesus," Dean laughs and shakes his head and his hand is in Sam's hair again and he lets him. He likes the warmth of it. It feels like home and he almost bursts with it.

Finally, the packet is open and. "Oh," Sam whispers, lips round, sucking in air. "Oh my God." He swirls around, arms around Dean's waist all of a sudden. "Thank you so much Dean." He almost cries. Of happiness, of course. Finally. Finally he has his own laptop, for all of his school stuff and his writing and and. His inner geek can barely contain himself, his outer even less.

Dean chuckles, arm around Sam's fragile shoulders. He still feels tiny in Dean's arms, no matter his growth spurt. Still feels like he's barely five years old. "Actually, Bobby's payed for most of it," he huffs out between the suffocating grip of his brother's arms. Sam wheels around, giving Bobby a quick father-son-like hug. More than he's given his own father in years, less than he's ever given Dean, even in their worst moments.

Like when Dean had killed his football. Or eaten all of his Halloween sweets. Or ruined his drawing of Smaug. It had been a masterpiece, honest to God. He had even borrowed Janie's glitter pencils for the flames in his eyes. Dean had titled it "burning shitpile".

Dean clears his throat behind Sam's back to make sure he has his attention again. Which is stupid really, he would always have Sam's attention. "I." He stops himself there. Like it's embarassing. Sam waits impatiently, clinging on every nice word that drops from his brother's lips, treasuring them for the time when he's mean to him again. To remind himself that he loves him. Most of the time, he doesn't need a reminder, though. "I got you a little something myself," Dean continues awkwardly, scratching his neck.

He hands Sam a small present, crappily wrapped this time, like he is used to. Wrapping gifts had never been one of Dean's core-skills. "Your wrapping-game hasn't really improved, Dean," Sam huffs annoyedly. Secretly though, he loves it. Loves the feel of crumpled paper that has been (unsuccesfully) attempted to be fixed with tons of clear tape. "Shut up," Dean quietly mumbles between two sips of coffee.

Dean's coffee addiction is a serious issue. When he started hunting with their dad on a regular basis John started to give him coffee to "keep the kid up". Soon enough, he couldn't get out of bed without one. Which later turned into three or four. Sam is pretty sure it isn't healthy anymore. Not for a fifteen year old boy, anyway.

He feels around the package in his hands for a little. It is a book, definitely. It has the right texture and weight. And Sam can see a corner of it sticking out where the packaging is torn. Maybe it is the new Stephen King novel? He has wanted to read it for ages (well, since it had been published) but not found it in any library yet. Excitedly, he tears at the edges.

When the abomination of a wrapping is gone, red paper sailing to the floor in little shreds, Sam's eyes fall onto a book... without a cover. He recognizes it immediately. The cover has fallen off at some point of their endless travelling. On the front page are two scribbled names: Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester. Underneath them, in Dean's scrawny 13-year-old-handwriting is Bobby's address. In case they lose it. So whoever would find it could send it here and they would get it the next time they visited.

The book is called "The Sea Is My Brother". It is written by Jack Kerouac and their favorite. Dean discovered it when he was thirteen and loved it. He gave it to Sam to read, who didn't understand any of it at the time. He was eight. But it was Dean's favorite, so it was his as well. The book he holds in his hand is their shared copy.

"Dean," he manages to choke out. He knows how important that book is to his brother. He can't accept a present this... this valuable. This book is everything to Dean and it was astonishing enough that he agreed to share his copy with Sam some years ago. 

"You can keep it. It's yours now. I've gotten myself another copy," Dean smiles and Sam can just look at him. And look and look in awe. "Dean, I really can't," he says, shaking his head vehemently. Dean steps closer to him. "Yes. Yes you can." And then he crouches down so he can look Sam -who still is a little smaller than him, despite all the growing he did - in the eyes. And suddenly it's difficult for Sam to breathe.

"You see, the thing Jack and Sebastian have in the book?" Dean asks. Sam nods, even though it is a rethorical question. "Even though they're not brothers, what they have is real brotherhood. I want you to have this so you will always remember that I'm your brother and that I will never leave you."

This is something new. Dean is not the person for "chick-flick moments", as he calls them, and this is probably the most unusual thing for him to say in that moment. There's that tight feeling spreading through Sam's chest again. He's not sure what it is. Adoration, maybe. Love. "Th-thank you," he stammers.

And suddenly, Dean is Dean again, waving him off with a sarcastic huff. "Anytime, brother," he says, but he says it too quickly, like he's trying to pretend to only half-mean it. Suddenly, Sam feels wrong. Left there, stranded somewhere along the pages of the book he's still grabbing tightly. Brother.

Breakfast is glorious. Bobby makes the best eggs and bacon and -surprisingly - also the best pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream around. But Sam can't eat, not really. Wishes he could, but barely manages half of the mass he usually shovels into his mouth. Nobody seems to notice.

After eating, he excuses himself, says he wants to try out his new PowerBook 500. He doesn't really, though. He knows Bobby and Dean are probably gonna stay downstairs, discussing some stupid hunt for ages. They wouldn't even notice he's been gone for most of the day. 

He's engulfed in the book (once again) when a line about brothers catches his eye. Well, more about brotherhood. "I cannot feel a glow of brotherhood. It has all gone too far beyond me." is what it says. Great. There's the strange feeling again. And he has to think about how Dean has called him brother earlier that day and how it has sounded wrong. Made him feel wrong.

Sam is eleven when he realizes that "brothers" is not the right word to describe him and Dean anymore. That it is not enough. That he feels like there has to be more, that he cannot feel anything remotely like brotherly love towards Dean, but something that is so much stronger.

Dean is fifteen when he sits at the kitchen table, pretending to listen to Bobby talk hunter-talk when really, he's scared shitless because he woke up with his father's words in his ear this morning: "Sonny, when you're eleven, imma take ya on your first hunt. Jus' like I did with Dean here." And Sam should never have to lead this life. Should never have to be like him.


	3. Home

So you see, you can't go home again. You can't you can't you can't. Nor can I.  
\- Sebastian Sampas

Dean Winchester's world was tipped upside-down only one time. It was when Sam had been in the hospital back when he was fourteen. Or fifteen maybe. He doesn't like thinking about those weeks. He remembers his father's call like it was just a day ago, remembers how his body had shut down, going into panic mode. He didn't move, didn't breathe for what felt like hours. It was his fault, he knew it was. Because if he had come with them. If he had just. If he had.

Back then, he had tied something up inside himself, tugged it away safely under his beating heart, under the love too big for his ribcage. And he had made a promise to himself and to Sammy as well. He had promised that nothing would ever hurt his brother again. Nothing and no one. Who would've known though, that Dean would be the one who hurt his brother the most all those years. Until he was seventeen.

It is quite the lovely June day. Dean never thought it would happen like this. The second time his life is tipped upside-down. Sam is still at school. Some nerd-study-group he always goes to. Every fucking day. Dean bets he has a girl. Bet's she's really fucking pretty. Bets Sammy is the sweetest boyfriend ever. He can't help the bang in his chest.

Fucking hell, he thinks, lips pressed together tightly. Get a grip. He walks into the kitchen. There's gotta be some Tylenol or Advil somewhere around this house. He's been on the meds for days now. There was no headache to be treated in the first place, but he's fucking twenty-one now, so who will tell him off?

In reality, no one has told him off in a long time for things remotely like that. No one has told him off for drinking, for staying awake thirty-seven hours straight, for running on pills. No one has told him off for anything a teenager should be told off for. No one but Sam, anyway. And he doesn't count, he's always worried.

The thing is: Dean never had a role model that didn't do all those things. There only is his father and he screams at him for all the wrong reasons: if he doesn't call him Sir, if he mixes up the words of his exorcism, if he falls asleep on a hunt, if he doesn't get all the research done by tomorrow. He's hard on him, Dean knows that. He also doesn't know things to be different. That's just the way it is, the way it had always been: his father drilling the hunter into him.

Thank God though, he has been a little more slack with Sammy. Has hit him less, screamed at him less (at least until Sam had started bitching about everything and anything) , took him to less hunts. Thank God. Dean couldn't bare the thought of Sam having to live that kind of life. His kind of life. Sam is supposed to finish high school and go to some college and get a normal-ass job. Whatever. Dean wants this for him, more than anything else. This is the reason he dropped out of high school that summer he was barely sixteen: to make sure he could help dad with most of the jobs so Sam wouldn't have to.

At the same time, he doesn't want this for Sam. Fears the day his brother will leave them. Which he will. Definitely. Because he feels somewhat uprooted without his brother. He feels like he's not his own person anymore, feels like he's no person at all then. Dean knows how fucked-up that is, but the only reason he's still here - still doing this - is because of his brother.

Sam can't never know that, though. He wouldn't know how to handle it. He's always been socially incapable. Besides, it would probably scare him away. It would be too much love for him. Too much not-brotherly-love at least. Dean shakes his head, desperately trying to deny it. NoNoNo. That's not it. They're just a little too codependant. That can happen if you grow up like they did: always on the run, without any friends, always having no one but each other.

He's still on his Advil-hunt, cursing under his breath whenever he opens the door of a cupboard and it's not there. The headache is back with full-on force. That headache that isn't really one, the one he gets whenever he thinks about Sam too much. The one that beats hard in his chest and sends thumps up into his head. Fuck.

He groans, fingers clawing at his hair until it hurts. Stop. God, Dean Winchester, just fucking stop it, he tells himself. That's when it happens, right during his already headache-blurred, heart-thumping, too-much-thinking state of mind, anyway. He opens the next wooden door, magnet pulling apart with a silent 'click', getting all impatient now.

At the first glance, there are only dusty plates in it he's never seen before. They only ever use the three ones from the sink, no need for more. He's about to close the door again, move on and curse some more, when his eyes fall onto the white edge of what he assumes to be a packaging of some sorts. Finally! He almost groans in relief.

He moves the plates to the side and grabs at the packaging. It's way too big for some pills. And way too flat. He hesitates. Whoever put this thing there didn't want anyone to find it. Still, it couldn't be dad's. His father never hides anything. If he doesn't want them to see something he puts it inbetween the pages of his journal. Neither Sam nor Dean ever take it, they know they'd be dead men then. So it is Sam's. And whatever concerns Sam - let alone that he is pissed enough that his brother has even tried to hide something from him - concerns him as well.

Looking back, Dean wishes he never even took a look at the envelope. Wishes he never even went on a hunt for pills that day. Wishes he never even lived that day, or any days that would follow. This is the second time his life gets turned upside-down. And again it is because of Sam. Everything important is because of Sam. Or for Sam. Or with Sam.

He holds the envelope in his hands and as his eyes wander towards the sender's address he can feel them start shaking: Office of Undergraduate Admission, 355 Galvez Street – Montag Hall, Stanford, CA 94305-6106. One address, three lines that make his stomach churn.

He's in the bathroom in under three seconds, knees slamming on the tiled floor hard. He gags. Nothing comes out. He feels sick, sick to his bones. The churning in his stomach, spinning in his head. It shouldn't feel this way. Like he's just seen a dead body. This is what he's wanted for Sammy, what he's always hoped for. What he's thrilled him for; helping with his homework, forever telling him he could do better. Fucking Stanford.

Somewhere, deep down in his guts, something screams at him, tells him to open the letter up, because it could still be a rejection. Who the fuck is he kidding? He knows Sammy can easily get into stanford. Can easily get into any fucking college he wants to.

He scrapes himself up off the floor, closing the lid of the toilet. He is still shaky, too damn shaky and has to lean against the sink to not immediately tumble down again. His breath comes out in ragged, panicky huffs. Please no. The letter is still clamped into his hands. Shaking, shaking forever.

A panick attack is absolutely not what he needs right now. Sammy could come home any second and then he has to, has to. Slowly, Dean peels the lid open, fingers shakily scratching over thick, official paper before he can manage to get a good grip at it. He doesn't even pull it out of the envelope completely, not ready for the hurt that hits his chest like a tornado when he reads the first line of print. “Dear Samuel, Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I offer you admission to the Stanford University Class of 2001.“

He hears the door open and close shut, hears a backpack thump on the kitchen floor. He can't process it. The letter slips out of his hands and sails to the floor quietly, still hitting the tiles with a way too-audible, flat sound. “Dean?“ Sam calls out in the kitchen. And it hurts, another pang in his chest. He doesn't answer. Bites the pack of his hand until it draws blood. Bad. This is bad.

“Dean?“ Sam sounds worried. Footsteps come towards the bathroom and fuck no. Sam can't see him like this. Mustn't see him like this. Suddenly, he can move again. It's like an instinct, him running towards the door. Ready to slam it shut and to lock it once, twice. Maybe throw the key away forever. Flush it in the toilet while he's at it. Never come out again so he doesn't have to deal with this. With losing his brother.

Sam is faster though, has heard Dean stumble through the bathroom. Fucking soccer practice, made him all quick and nimble. He reaches the door before Dean can and puts his foot into the gap. ShitShit. Dean feels like a trapped animal, desperately looking for a way out of the room, head turning at an insane pace. No chance. There's not even a window.

The door handle is ripped from his slack grip and Sam stands in front of him, chest heaving. Beautiful Sammy in his plaid shirt. All pretty eyes and shaky hair and too grown-up. Dean looks away.

“Dean, you okay?“ his brother asks. He still doesn't answer, knows his voice wouldn't do right now, would crack with everything he's feeling. From disappointment to madness to emptiness to love. “Holy shit, you're bleeding!“ Sam blurts out, reaching for his hand quicker than he can pull it away. He can almost hear himself snap “Language, Sammy!“ and pull his hand away, assuring his brother that it's nothing. Like he has countless times Sam discovered something or other he did to himself. He doesn't now, though. The only thing he does is slowly look up at his little brother. Kid brother. Baby brother.

Maybe it is something in his eyes. Maybe it is simply the fact that Sam finally notices the letter on the floor. Dean wishes he'd say anything. Tell him he decided not to go. That it was a bad joke and he's sorry. He doesn't though. Only lets go of Dean's hand like it burned him, running his own over his face. He doesn't even have any stubble yet. Jesus Christ.

Nobody says anything for a long time. There's nothing to say. Nothing that can fix this. They're both alone in the devestation they feel. Finally, Sam opens up his mouth, takes in a breath. “Listen, Dean, I.“

He can't finish his sentence because Dean's eyes jump up to his face, burning with hate. Dean doesn't give a fuck, doesn't care how much this expression will hurt his brother. He knows it will. It's the expression dad uses to end an argument with Sam. That usually sends him flying into his room and either punch a wall or cry into his pillow for hours. It's the one expression he's vowed to never ever use on Sammy.

But now, he doesn't care. Just like his little brother didn't care about how much it would hurt him if he left. Now, Sam doesn't run to his room, only takes several slow steps backwards until his back hits the wall of the hallway. Dean can finally breathe again. Hasn't noticed he's been holding in his breath while Sam was so close. Always too close.

“Don't,“ he says, voice gravelly. “Don't fucking do this.“ He can see Sam gulp, see his Adam's apple bop. He doesn't know if the hatred burning him up is aimed at Sam or rather himself for being this stupid. For knowing he should let his brother go, knowing that's all he's wished for for the last few years. And at the same time being selfish enough now to make him stay. With everything he's got. Make him stay because he can't do this without him. Living.

There's tears in Sam's eyes and fuck. It's his weak spot, seeing his brother cry or hurt. But he can't be soft with him this time. He has to keep. Keep him. “When did you fucking plan on telling me, asshole?“ he hisses. “The day you're fucking leaving?“ Sam looks away. At the floor, the wall, the ceiling. Anywhere but him and that's answer enough. Dean starts shaking again, all over.

“Dean, I.“ Again, Dean interrupts him before he can answer.

“Yeah, don't 'Dean, I' me,“ he mocks his brother's hurt tone, surprisingly well. “You weren't gonna tell me. You were just gonna fucking leave. Leave me behind and and.“ He's panting now. Fuck. He's never been good with words, wishes he would be this one goddamn time so he could tell Sam what he's feeling right now. How he can't leave. How it would kill him to see his little brother go.

To his surprise, Sam doesn't flinch away like he always does when Dean is that rough with him. He looks up, tears in his eyes, yes, but also some finality around the corners of his mouth Dean is not used to see. His face suddenly looks too hard, too old. Almost like dad's.

“See Dean, that's why.“ If Sam's voice was venom and his looks could kill Dean would be six feet under by now. “That's why I didn't tell you. Because you would never let me go. You're so selfish, you'd rather have me here unhappy than accept the fact that I'm my own person. Hell, not that I'm surprised. It's never like you did do anything for me.“

It's the last sentence, said in this calm but vicious voice that makes him tumble down. He grips at the sink again. Misses. His knees slam on the floor but he doesn't feel it. Can barely keep his head from slamming against the door frame. Kinda doesn't want to. White noise. He can barely see, barely breathe. “Sam,“ he gurgles, somewhere in his throat. It must've been there. He must've said it out loud.

Apparently, he didn't and Sam turns to walk away. Like this is over. Like he would just let him. “Sam!“ He shouts it. Louder than necessary. It's almost a cry. Like Sam is dead. Or dying. Just like when he was in hospital. “Sammy you can't.“ He stops himself there, forever processing what his brother had just said. 'You never did do anything for me.' “You don't actually believe that?“ He grips at the door, knuckles white.

He feels numb. It's bad. When he feels numb it's getting bad. Dean knows this. Last time he felt numb he nearly dragged the razor vertically. Fuck. Fuck! He can't do this, it's too much and the pain in his chest just keeps on stinging. And all he can do is push his hand onto his sternum and push push push. Fingers digging into skin until it hurts, until he knows they'll leave bruises. It doesn't help. His brain isn't getting enough oxygen.

Sam turns around, asks “Believe what?“ even though he exactly fucking knows. And Dean can't tell why he's not crying yet. Sam answers his own question. “Dean, all I've ever done was for you. I wanted to make you proud! I didn't give two shits about other people. It was only ever you. And all you ever did was tell me I should've done better. I got straight As at school? Make 'em A-stars. I killed that werewolf? Well, it took you two bullets, should've been one. I fix a car like you taught me to? Those edges aren't cut clean enough. You know what Dean? I don't care. For once, I'm not gonna do what you expect from me.“

Dean looks at his brother, eyes big. Green shining watery in them. So that was. That's why. That was how Sammy felt about this? And then something hits him hard, something Sam's said only seconds ago. 'It was only ever you.' Only ever you. Only ever him. Dean. And now, now he fucking is crying. Too-hot tears streaming down his cheeks. His vision goes blurry. He tastes salt and can't help but laugh bitterly at the fact that his body is still functioning. That the most basic things like tasting still work. Because he doesn't feel like he would still work.

Sam opens his mouth again and Dean wants to tell him to stop. That it is enough. Enough hurting done for a day. But he's still sitting on the cold tile-floor and can't move a single muscle. Can't get his vocal chords to do anything else but sob and shake. “You know how much that hurts, De?“ And the nickname falls almost lovingly from his brother's lips, so wrong in this context but so familiar. Dean can't do anything but look up at that beautiful face. “When the one person you really wanna make proud keeps and keeps on telling you you're not good enough? 'S worse than any physical pain.“

And fuck, Dean realizes now. Realizes that what Sammy needed all these years was someone to hold him and tell him he was good enough and tell him he was worth it. Something a mother would've done. Something dad never did. Something he himself failed to realize and do. All these years of wondering why Sam, his baby Sammy, is hurting. And it was because of him. He has broken his own promise he made years ago. Has hurt Sam all those years.

Dean makes another promise right there, on the bathroom floor, in tears. To never ever be that important to Sam again, that he can hurt him in that way. To be involved in his little brother's life as little as possible. He gets up. Forces himself up. Pulls himself up on the door frame. Sam still stands there, probably wondering why he's not shouting some curse words back at him.

“Listen, Sammy.“ Dean's voice breaks, still sore from crying. Christ, he hasn't cried in years. It's pathetic. He has to forcefully keep a hysterical giggle shoved inside his throat. “I'm. I didn't know. I was. I only ever wanted the best for you.“ There's no 'I'm sorry', no real apology. Because he can't right now. Can't wrap his head around everything he's just learned. He knows he has to be strong now and if he starts apologizing he'll become a wreck, a mess again. “Of course you can - no, you will - go to stanford,“ he corrects himself.

His brother looks surprised. Dean's not even sure if positively so, can't really tell. Can't focus on Sam's emotions because he has trouble sorting out his own. Tugging them into boxes, locking them away. “Just... just when are you gonna tell dad?“ Sam shrugs. Okay. So he's gonna tell him the day he leaves. Dean knows his brother well enough to get that from his silent gesture.

The next thing he says makes him grip the door frame again, legs turning into mush under the realization of the truth in his words. “You do know if you tell him... that you can't come back. Come back home. That he'll kick you out?“ Sam just looks at him, no expression in his eyes. Of course he fucking knows. That's why he does all this, to be able to leave them. Leave him. Clean cut. Hurts less.

Fuck. “'S not like I have a home, anyway,“ is all Sam says before he pushes past Dean, grabs the Stanford letter and disappeares into the bedroom. Klick. Shuts the door. Shuts him out. It has something final to it and Dean can't help the whimper escaping his lips. He has to be strong. Has to be. Has to. Teeth are scraping at the back of his hand again.

And when their father arrives home from his hunt a few days later they pretend. Pretend that everything's fine. That Sam hasn't just told Dean how much he hates him. That Dean knows that he won't have a home to return to every evening in a few months. Because his home has never been a place. Has never been this ratty hunters' cabin they're currently staying at or any other. His home has always been Sam and Sam only. And he would leave him soon.


	4. Vultures

Leave me alone at night. I'll handle those vultures with ease.  
\- Jack Kerouac

Sam's lips are electric. Sparkling. So warm and soft and fucking perfect and Dean can't believe this is happening right now. Can't believe he can touch his brother. Like this. Like they belong. And yet there he is, naked body pressed alongside Dean's and Dean doesn't know where to look, how to breathe with how overwhelming it is.

His finger skids across Sammy's soft brown baby-touch skin. It's summer and he's been outside a lot, looks like he's straight out of Palo Alto. Just that back then, he didn't let Dean do this. He was distant, all cocooned up in his own world. Dean sighs and can feel the muscles of Sam's stomach contract under his flat hand.

“Sammy,“ he sighs, eyelids barely lifted under a heavy weight of love. Everything's just too much, too overwhelming. His hand feels around the cold matress, balling up nothing but sheets. He's awake in a matter of seconds. Something's wrong. Very wrong. Before he can put a finger on what exactly it is, a small drop hits the back of his nose. Right where it is a little crooked. The part he hates most about his face.

“Sam?“ he asks, now concerned, eyes darting up at the ceiling over his bed. Fuck. Shit no, please. NoNoNo. Please, not him. Dean can't move. There's blood everywhere. Too much blood. Blood on his hands, blood soaking his shirt, blood sticking his ashen hair together, blood in his mouth. He can taste it: warm and thick and sickeningly... familiar. He gasps, can't breathe. It's Sam's blood. He knows it, it's Sammy's blood. Can't. Can't.

His brother is nailed to the seiling. Wound in his stomach gashing. And Dean is four years old again and can do nothing but stare, stare. Open mouth. Eyes wide. Heart agape. He's so gone. Can't do anything until the smell of burning flesh hits him, until.

Dean yanks his eyes open. He's awake. For real this time. For real. This is real, isn't it? He makes sure by pinching one of his scars. Thank God, yes. Thank God. Or whatever it is up there, is the first thing he thinks. 'Cause it can't be something nice.

It makes sense that he's awake. The motel surrounding from his dream has changed. He's back in his room. His own. The bunker. Everything's great. Fine. Dandy. Sam' fine. Sam. Sam. 

He can't help it. He's awake and he knows it. Know's it's been a dream. A bad one. A stupid one. One he has now had for years on end. Ever since he got Sam from Stanford. Ever since he's gotten Sam back. His Sam. But he still can't fucking help it. Can't stop the shaking. The sob coming from his too-tight throat. It's pathetic. He knows it. It was only a dream. Christ, Winchester, don't be such a kid.

Still. Still, the panic is washing over him, pulling him into its tide. Pulling him away from this. From common sense. From reality. Breathing is hard. Breathing is hard when your brain and body pretend that your brother is dead.

Of course it's not the first time. He has lost Sam in real life way too many times. He was never good at that. Dealing with it. He thinks back to carved thighs and pill bottles and too much alcohol. He had never been able to function without Sammy. Never will be. He only functions for Sammy. That's how codependant he is and he knows it and it makes him sick to his guts. At the same time, he loves it. Loves. Loves...

And if he's not losing his baby brother in real life, then he does so in his horribly brutal dream-world. Over the course of many nights in many horrible, different ways. He should be used to it by now. To losing. To the feeling it leaves him with. To the knowledge that his presence usually kills people. Himself included. To know that he's bad.

But he's not. Not used to it at all. And his breath comes out hitched and there's not enough oxygen for his brain and something is clawing, clawing at his chest, ripping it apart. It takes him almost two mintutes to realize that it's his own fingernails that dig into his skin.

He pushes his fingertips into his chest more more. Just a little more. Until he can watch the red gathering under his nails. He doesn't care. He'll find some stupid explanation for Sam tomorrow. Like he always does. Forever lying about his scars. For now, it feels good. Too good. A distraction from how much it hurts to think about him. About Sam, bleeding out and catching fire on the ceiling. Like their mom did.

With a rush, all the feelings and trembling are back. Fuck. Pull yourself together, man. But he can't. He has to. Has to. He can't form a proper thought, his brain a repetition of SamSamSam. It's too much and he wants to get up. Though he can't. Knows he can't. He'll fall. Deeper than he's already fallen. He'll.

Another sob makes its way from his throat. Loud and hurt this time. Like a wounded animal. He's clawing at his hair now. And clawing and clawing in punishment. For what, he's not exactly sure. But he's sure he deserves it. For the people he tortured in hell and the way he left Sam behind one too many times and him not being able to save so many people. So many. And all the other horrible things he's done. Thoughts and things he doesn't dare speaking out loud.

In his panic-stricken state he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice the door of his room opening with a silent screech. He never oiled the hinges, finding almost something like comfort in the knowledge that he will know when his door is opened. If he's not too far gone to.

Doesn't notice sleep-soft bed-warm Sam with ruffled hair entering the room on cold feet. In the state Dean usually likes him best. When he just woke up, still drunk on sleep. Sam sometimes forgets that he's a grown-up then. That they both are. Lets Dean mess up his hair and sometimes, if he's very lucky, nuzzle his face into his neck so he can steal small breaths of sleep-Sam.

“Dean...?“ Sam asks hesitantly as he enters the room and turns on the light. That's when Dean notices him. When his eyes fly up to his brother's face. Beautiful as always, even though there still is the imprint of his pillowcase on his cheek. Dean's eyes skid down and face his hands in a desperate attempt to hide his panick-stricken tears from his brother.

He doesn't want Sam to worry. God knows, Sam has enough to worry about. After the last few weeks they can both be grateful to be alive. Even though Dean can't help but sometimes wish he wasn't. Hadn't made it. Just so he could stop hurting other people. For once. Just so Sam could get what he deserved. A normal fucking life. A normal fucking brother.

But he can't look away for too long. Has to look because he has to see. Has to make sure Sammy is okay. It's a prank his brain pulls on him sometimes. To make him think his brother is not okay. Even though he obviously is, standing right in front of him. Breathing. Alive. Like now.

And God, if he hadn't been this bad then, maybe things would have gone differently. He would have told Sam he was fine. And Sam would have believed him. And that would have been it. But tonight, it's bad. Real bad. The worst it's been for years. And Dean's still so fucking scared of losing his brother. Too fucking scared.

Maybe it's the fact that he's had this dream for ages on end now, overstraining his nerves. Maybe it's the fact that he actually lost Sam only a few weeks ago. Maybe it's the fact that he's tired. Too tired for a guy in his mid-thirties. Too tired for any human being. It doesn't matter, really. The only thing that matters is that he's so done with everything today that he can't. Can't pretend this time.

Dean tries so hard. Tries so hard to not let Sam see but he can feel his brother getting closer. Sense his pulse pumping right next to him. And he can't fucking help it. Can't help it anymore. He has to look. He forces his head up. Slowly. Painfully. When his eyes meet Sammy's his breath hitches.

He can feel the panic crawling back into his body again. Populating his limbs like some dangerous illness. It is not because of the dream, though. Not this time. It's Sam. How close he suddenly is. How he smells like sleep. How there still are healing scratches on his face. How his eyes are red. How his hair. His hair. There's a thump in his chest and fuck. Fuck.

“Dean?“ Sam's voice cracks. Just like Dean does. And there's that damn tear. That one tear again. He can't let the sob in his throat out. Is scared to talk. So he just shakes his head. Vehemently. Hopes Sam will get it, all his little signs. He's sure his brother can read him better than anyone else. He's sure he's an open book to him. Has been for such a long time. He's sure his brother found out by now. Found out about all the stuff he's been doing, thinking, while Sammy was asleep right next to him.

Of course Sam gets him. He can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't seem to care how badly Dean needs him to leave. How badly he wants him to stay. Or he just doesn't give a damn. Moving closer and closer and closer with that wrinkle-worried forehead of his. He's great at those puppy-dog-eyes. Always has been. It might be one of Dean's soft spots. One of the many he has with Sam.

And Dean knows right then and there that he will not send his brother away. Will not keep him from hugging him, from whispering calming things into the sweat-wet shell of his ear, still ringing from the nightmare, forever ringing. Will not keep him from trying to be what he wants him to be. Dean also knows that his brother knows. That he wants this. Wants to do this for Dean.

Sam has reached the bed by now, Dean's eyes fixed on his beautiful face. Once he's given it one look he can't tear them away. He has to drink this sight in, get drunk on it. On sleep-soft, fingertips-touching, heavy-breathing, rose-cheeked Sam. Has to remember all of this because he will never know when his brother will be like this again. This soft and childlike. It could be days, it could be years. Sammy, this kind of Sammy, makes him feel like a big brother again. Like he needs to protect him. But in a heart-thumping, too-much-touching kind of way.

“'S it fine if I sit?“ Sam asks, pointing at the empty space on the bed right next to Dean, voice forever heavy with sleep. He sounds shy. Those short sentences, he used to do them when he was nervous. When he asked Dean about girls. And about boys. Dean gulps. Whatever it is. His senses are consumed with it. He could not remember it ever being this overwhelming. It's just SamSamSam over and over. His smell, his voice, his lean arms, his huffing breaths. Everything about him is right. Righteous. Righteous man. Not a boy, no he's not that little boy anymore, Dean is painfully aware of that.

He still doesn't trust his voice. Or any of his body parts, really. To him, it's a surprise that his heart is still beating solidly in his chest. Well, as solidly as it can get. It does do some skips from time to time. So he just nods, feels the matress next to him lower under Sam's weight. The boy is pure muscle. “Dean, what happened?“ Sam asks. And for a second his hand lingers just in front of Dean's face and he wants him to. God, he wants him to.

Everything is too slow. His breaths, his thoughts. He wishes he knew what to say, knew what lie to tell this time. Like he always did when Sam asked him this question. Like he always did whenever he stared at his little brother for too long or touched him somewhere brothers just wouldn't. Not like this. But he can't come up with anything, brain a blank canvas that is slowly painted with a detailed picture of Sam. Capturing more his soul than anything else. Slowly. It only works slowly but it does. He opens his mouth and lets the words rasp their way out. “Nothing it- uh. It was nothing.“

Sam doesn't buy his shit. Jesus, he used to be so good at lying, so good at conceiling it. What happened? His brother looks at him, eyes steadily fixed on his and Dean counts all the colours he can find in them so he doesn't start thinking too much. So he won't let the panic back in. He's at twelve by the time Sam speaks up again. He's calm but there is this tone in his voice he has when he's about to snap. “Don't bullshit me,“ he says. “I heard you screaming and crying three rooms away. Sounded like a dyin' animal.“

Dean flinches. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to be reminded of his dream. But he can't stop it, can feel his heart rate picking up at the thought of it. Fucking hell. He knows he can't lie to Sam. Not tonight. He's too drained, too tired, too small for it. Feels like nothing. He knows he has to tell him, forces the words up his throat. Well, at least half of the words he wants to say. “I. It was just. A bad dream.“ That's all he manages before he has to look away again.

And God, he needs Sam to touch him. He's too far away on that bed. Dean would never tell him. Would never dare to scoot closer. But he only truly feels safe when he touches some part of Sam. Only truly feels calm when he's in his arms. The thing is, that happens once every blood moon. And he's starving for it, needs it more than ever. Needs to make sure his brother is fine. Won't go up in flames any second.

It sits there between them. Dean is pretty sure Sam can feel it as well. And for the first time, he identifies the thud in his chest not as panic but something entirely different. He's still scared. Forever scared of everything. Of doing something that will drive Sam away.

But it is Sam who suddenly scoots closer. Lays his hands on Dean's shoulders, warmth seeping through him. His palms are a little too heavy on Dean's skin. Perfectly too heavy. And he can't help the shudder forming under his skin. It becomes a shaking real quick. And hell, Dean doesn't want this. Doesn't want to give in but he can't fight it, real hard sobs coming from his chest because he can't believe how incredibly good this feels. How incredibly wrong it is. And he can't. He can't.

Sam pulls him in tighter and he can't even think. Can't even breathe. His forehead is on his brother's shoulder, nose pressed into the hollow right above his collarbone. Jesus, he's so bony. And Dean can smell him, even with the shaky, short breaths he takes in. It almost feels like he's melting into Sam, his bony grip. It's overwhelming and he's not even sure it is real until he finds himself almost literally in Sammy's lap. Their long legs tangled up.

Sam rocks him back and forth softly. Like he used to do when his brother was little. How he still did when he was way too old for it. When he broke his hand at thirteen or when his girlfriend left him at fifteen. They have always been a little too close for two brothers. It has always felt not quite normal. And the sobs have stopped. Finally. All Dean can do is breathe slowly. Take in Sam.

Take in all the places they are touching: thighs and toes and chests and shoulders and his nose in Sam's neck and Sam's hands in Deans hair where they are tugging, tugging. Much more softer than Dean's own hands. Because for Dean, hands in the hair means exasperation, punishment. For Sam, it means love and calmness. He's the only one allowed to touch his hair like that. Not even his girls are. Dean sighs a shaky breath.

Sam's hands feel around his cheeks and pull his face up, up. Carefully. Lovingly, almost. Dean has to keep himself from sighing because he doesn't want to leave the safety of his baby brother's neck. Knows he has to, eventually. When Sam forces him to look at his eyes he takes one hand and pushes Dean's hair from his forehead. Like dad used to do to calm him down. The familiarity of it is just right, just what he needs. Hurts just a little bit.

“Please, tell me?“ Sam asks. He doesn't need to clarify anything for Dean to know what he's talking about. “Please?“ And God, how can he resist that face? That boy he would do anything for. He knows like his second skin. It's still hard. Saying anything. He wants to protect Sam from this shit. His brother should be telling him about his problems, not the other way round. But right now they're taking on reversed roles. Sam protecting Dean. From himself.

“It was. I. You. Sammy, you were dying. It was. Stupid really. Just a dream, but it got me.“ That's all Dean manages to blurt out before he's too scared of the tears coming back. Sam's hand is still in his hair. Makes him feel safe, grounds him. Like nothing else can. Sam nods, chin scratching softly over Dean's short hair.

“I know. I know the past few weeks have been bad. But I'm here, Dean. I'm not gonna leave. Pinky promise.“ And instead of wrapping their pinkies around each other like they did when they were children, still almost infant-like, he intertwines their hands. Dean's breath quickens, heart rate speeding through the ceiling. Not because of how good this feels. And it does. Incredibly so. But because Sam doesn't get it. Exceptionally doesn't understand it. Him.

Dean shakes his head vehemently which causes Sam to push him a little away from his chest. Not too far. They both couldn't bear that. Just far enough form him to get a grasp at what is going on inside his big brother's mind. Because he's dying to know since he was eleven. “What? What is it?“ Sam asks, Dean is still pulling his head from one side to the other with such a force.

“God, that's not.“ He stops himself, has to re-arrange his thoughts, tries again. “It's. Fuck. Jesus Christ. Shit. Uh-“ Sam's hand is on his back, resting warm right between his shoulderblades and he's grateful for the support. Finally, he manages to choke out: “It's not the first time. It's not because of the last weeks. I. I've had those dreams ever since. Ever since Stanford.“ Dean can feel his little brother stiffen under his fingers that are clinging onto his worn-out-soft shirt. It's the shark shirt. Ridiculously old and a little too short. 

“Started a few days after you left.“ Dean's voice breaks at his last confession. He feels drained. Doesn't want to talk anymore, wishes he could just stop. Breathing. Existing. Thank God, Sam doesn't say anything for a long time. Dean doesn't think he could've managed one of his brother's psych-sessions. Not tonight. Not like this, with them still clinging at each other.

When he does talk, Sam doesn't even mention what they just talked about. Another sign that he knows him too well. More than a brother should. More than anyone ever did. “C'mon. Sit up.“ And somehow he manages to lean his back against the headboard and to arrange Dean, so he leans against his chest. Dean's head is on his brother's shoulder before he can properly think about it, taking in that smell again: books and coffee and that special something that makes Sam, coated with a hot layer of sleep. He's tired again. But doesn't want this to end.

Suddenly Sam has a book in his hand. Out of nowhere. Dean never knew how, but he did it as long as he could remember: pull things out of nowhere, appear out of nowhere himself. It is just another thing that makes Sam Sam. His Sam. “You want me to read my favorite one?“ Dean has to squint a little, but of course. Of course Sam picked this book to read to him during a time of crisis. He almost has to laugh. Almost. It is their favourite. Ever since he can remember. And now it is in Sam's hands once again, his old, rusty copy without the cover page. Jack Kerouac's 'The Sea is my Brother'.

And when Sam finishes his extract, Dean is fast asleep. Finally. Still leaning on his shoulder. “I have reached my understanding with the world. I know what it expects of me, and I do not want to know any more about it. Leave me alone at night: I'll handle those vultures with ease.“ With that last paragraph, Sam Winchester closes the book and looks at his brother who is so close. And he has a stiff neck but he will not leave Dean's side tonight. Because he just found out his brother had suffered night after night for almost fifteen years straight. And he knows that there are many more nights to come when he might not be able to be there to help him. Too many nights.


	5. Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i'm so sorry it took me so long. i'm currently engulfed in my final exams, so yea...  
> but to make it up to you this is quite a long chapter (for my standarts)  
> btw this isn't beta-read, so please be kinfd (or be my beta, either one)  
> ok wow i should stop now, that sounded waaay too stupid right there.
> 
> ly x

It's abstract and yet in its final analysis ever so concrete. It's give! give! give! For other people's happiness.  
\- Sebastian Sampas

Sam knows this is a lot to ask for. Knows Dean never goes against their father but he has wanted this for so long now and he finally has it and he doesn't want to ruin in. They're in Walnut Ridge, Arkansas and dad has promised them that they will stay here for at least five months. Sam can't remember that they ever stayed that long anywhere else. They did. Of course. In Lawrence, Kansas, but he doesn't remember that. Sometimes in his dreams he thinks he might get a glimpse of his mother, of what it's like to have a home. A family that consists of more than just an older brother and a car. But it's always gone when he wakes up. Gone for good, because he doesn't think he could deal with those memories. Doesn't know how Dean does it.

And even though Sam still doesn't trust his father's promise completely he starts to get this feeling Dean and him call “long-term-fuzziness“. They never actually talk about feeling homey or having friends. Because they know they'll leave eventually. It hurts sometimes, but less so if they don't anchor themselves wherever they're currently at. So they talk about long-term cabins and long-term girls and long-term hunts. Because it's easier that way. Because then they won't start to feel at home. They never are. Nowhere.

But here, in Buttfuck, Nowhereland (literally) Sam has accidentally introduced Rhoden as a 'friend' to Dean. Has accidentally talked about the dogs in their 'neighborhood'. Has accidentally said 'Let's go home'. Because dad left almost a month ago, said he needed some time off his babysitting-duties to hunt properly and left Sam and Dean to stay here, in the old cabin of a friend. Hunter friend, of course.

It's not like they need him. Dean is twenty and Sam sixteen. They can take care of themselves. Dean works at a garage all week and Sam salts the windows and doorstep. Sorted. They need nothing but each other. Never did. Never will.

Right now, today, though, Sam plans on asking for something else. Something he knows Dean won't like and he's bracing himself. For angry looks from storm-green eyes and for the guilt gnawing at the back of his head. Because he just sent his Stanford application away yesterday and Dean doesn't know. He'll never know. And it feels wrong enough betraying his brother like this but he has to ask him for a favor. Has to ask him for help. Help to trick dad. Which is something Dean usually doesn't account for.

Sam takes a last deep breath before he opens the door and steps inside. Never in his life has he been this scared of something. His hands are shaking like crazy and he feels like his brain isn't getting enough oxygen. It's worse than when he took his SATs. They were a piece of cake compared to this. And he still doesn't know when the best moment to bring it up would be. Maybe right after entering the cabin. Maybe during dinner. Maybe after dinner when his brother will (hopefully) be slightly drunk on his third beer.

Well, 'straight after entering' doesn't get another closer consideration since Sam is already standing right in the living room, closing the heavy wooden door behind his back. And he sure as hell doesn't feel like he is physically or mentally ready to break it to Dean yet. He can hear his brother roaming around in the kitchen, probably making one of his widely-known mac-and-cheese-combos. Sam is always the victim when it comes to Dean's cooking experiments. He remembers that there once was mac and cheese with coco puffs or marshmallow fluff or something like that. It was disgusting but he hadn't said a word back then. Didn't want to hurt his brother. Still doesn't. Never does.

He knows that Dean will become suspicious if he stands around for too long. He's always moving, always itchy, on edge. Just like his brother and his father. It's not a family- but more of a hunter-thing, really. So Sam pulls himself together just as hard as he pulls on his backpack's strap to keep it on his shoulder. Then he walks into the middle of the cabin with steps as secure as he can manage.

The cabin basically is just one wooden room. No walls, no doors. Only the bathroom is seperate. And that is the problem. Sam hates this, his no-privacy-life. Hates how he can hear his father snoring on the sofa like a chainsaw, hates how close Dean's bed is to is own. Hates how difficult things become for him then because they are forever too close to one another, spending too much time together, and he has to scarcely hide the thump-thump of his heart. It makes him sick. Is sick.

He plunges onto his bed and sighs, hoping Dean will just mistake it for him being stressed from school and not realize it's because of him. Like so many things in Sam's life have become by now. “Yo Sammy, you hungry?“ his brother almost shouts from the kitchen. Not that there is any need to with the cabin being so small. But Dean always liked to be loud, always imposing his presence on other people's consciousness. It's how they work: Dean is always there, right in the middle of things like some superhero, and Sam is always some kind of marginal figure floating around the edge of his own life. And that is the problem: Sam doesn't want to be. He needs to change things and this here, what he is about to do, is the first step. With many more to follow. Like Stanford. Like leaving.

“Uh, yeah, a little,“ he tells his brother, knowing that if he tells him the truth - that he absolutely isn't hungry, but on the contrary, close to spewing - Dean will know something is up. Sam usually never refuses food. Dean nothing but slams the frying pan on the table, adding two plates and cutlery in his most significant Dean-move. He even looks like he's fighting some monster when he's merely setting up the table. All quick and hard and muscular. And Sam can't help the way his eyes trail down his brother's bulky chest. Jesus Christ. He needs to stop this. This. Whatever it is.

“C'mon sit down,“ Dean says, already wriggling impatiently on his chair. “You're making me all giddy standin' there. 'Sides, I wanna eat.“ Sam knows Dean never starts eating if he's not at the table as well. Out of respect, he says. Sam's pretty sure he just wants to check if he's eating enough after what happened last October. And he knows he's still not back to normal weight. Really wants to appreciate his brother is doing this for him. Keeping an eye on him like he always has.

For once, it's not mac and cheese but re-heated mashed potatoes and chicken from the diner they ate in yesterday. It is fine. Not the best thing Sam has ever eaten, but he did have worse. While the only sound to be heard in the small cabin is their content chewing, Sam realizes that he has to ask now. Has to or else he will never have the balls to do so again. When he puts down his fork his hands are shaking a little, making it clink against the edge of his still half-full plate. “De?“ he asks in a voice that suddenly sounds very tiny. Even to him.

His brother's eyes shoot up to him while his head is still bowed low over the table so he can get a fork full of meat into his mouth without spilling anything. Sam watches a wolfish smile appear on his brother's face while he is chewing and straightening up, so he can look at Sam directly. He knows Dean still likes it when he calls him that name. Even though he is twenty now. He still likes it. Calling him this name can get Sam almost anything he wants. And he might use this to his advantage right now.

“What is it, lil' brother?“ Dean asks, leaning back in his chair, that smile still plastered all over his face. Sam can't help the heat rushing through his body when Dean calls him 'little brother' and he has to grip the table top tightly with one hand to keep his head from spinning too much. He gulps and takes a huge breath. This is it. The moment he is going to actually ask his brother to do this. “I,“ he stutters. “I need to ask you for a favor.“ Dean nods, almost like he expected something along the likes of it. He probably did, knowing Sam and his body language more than any other person in the whole wide world. “Go on,“ he says, his smile all but gone, arms still crossed, eyes fixed on Sam and it's making him giddy.

“Please don't be mad,“ Sam adds. If Dean wasn't suspicious until then, he sure as hell is now. Sam can see it in the way his nose scrunches up and his eyes narrow. He wishes he could go back. Undo his question or maybe the last two hours or so while he's at it. It was a stupid idea to ask. Fucking stupid. But he has to go through with it now that he started. He tries to calm himself down with another shaky breath and starts his explanation, forcing his voice to sound as calm as possible. “Okay so, our social studies teacher told us he was doing a trip to Washington. Like, Washington D.C. Obviously.“ Sam laughs nervously, can feel his chest tightening up. “And like. I really would. I would love to go. Dean! Imagine. The Pentagon and the White House and the Senate and and. I've just. I always wanted to see this. And I was wondering if maybe it would be okay. And maybe you could like pretend I'm at some study group or maybe at Rhoden's or something when dad calls. I don't...“

His voice fades more and more towards the end of his oh-so-well prepared speech. Dean is just looking at him, saying nothing and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. Sam has to lean away from the intensity of his brother's stare. This was a stupid idea. Oh, stupid! He knows how to deal with loud Dean, with tantrum-throwing Dean, with threatening Dean, with angry Dean. But the silence he gets from him now is super-scary. Something he can't handle at all. When Dean gives him silence, he can barely read him. It makes him nuts, all itchy and on edge. He wriggles around in his chair.

Finally, thank God finally, Dean leans back again and breaks eye contact, almost like he is actually considering things, like he is shoving them around in his head. Sam can almost hear him think. When he speaks, his voice doesn't sound angry like Sam has suspected, but rather a little sad. “Sammy...“ He says it almost lovingly. Christ. “Who is going to pay for all of it?“

Sam relaxes seemingly. Because Dean isn't angry at him. Because there will be no fight. Because this right there was a genuine question. A genuine question he has an answer to. “I asked Mr Steinfeld and he said the school has this fund for kids who can't afford the school trips. So yeah. They'd pay it for me.“ Sam still doesn't know if Dean is going to say yes. He hopes. But he doesn't dare asking. His brother gnaws at his fingernails, making a chip-chip sound. Sam knows this means he's thinking about it. Considering things. Which is more than he ever dared to hope for. He's drumming his knuckles onto the table nervously, waiting for Dean to say something, anything.

“Yeah. Yeah okay.“ is what finally bubbles out of Dean's mouth and Jesus, Sam never thought it would be this easy. He can't even remember why he worried so much about it just an hour ago. Why he procrastinated asking for basically weeks. It's like a heavy weight is lifted from his chest and he can't stop smiling. He knows he looks stupid right now, feels stupidly happy and light-weighted. At this moment he fucking loves his brother. Even more than he usually does and he has the irrational fear his chest might explode with all the happiness he's feeling.

His brother knows he just fulfilled him a lifelong dream. And he grins a little. Even though it is only a small smile it is a genuine one and Sam knows those are rare with Dean. Is incredibly proud he made his brother happy even though really, it is the other way round. And he can't help it. The butterflies in his chest make him do it, he's pretty sure. Sam nothing but leaps out of his chair and throws his arms around Dean's neck, holding onto him like some kind of baby-ape. He knows he's way too old for this but right now, he could care less. “Jesus Christ, Sammy,“ his brother laughs and huffs under the weight of his body, but he hugs him back, hands warm on his shoulderblades.

There might have been a tear on Sam's cheek. Just one. He whipes it away quickly. This is what their life could be like. If it was normal. Ordinary. Fucking glorious. Sam wants this normality, more than anything else. Sometimes even more than his brother and he isn't even sure that is possible. Wanting something more than Dean. “Thank you so much,“ he almost mumbles into the nape of his brother's neck. Into the soft hairs growing towards freckled shoulders on warm skin. Sam trembles a little and he has to let go. Knows his feelings are changing from mere gratefulness to something else. “Thank you, De,“ he says again, as he pulls away from his brother. Dean chuckles under his weight and almost lovingly pushes him from his lap. They both know they are too old for this. “Anything for you, Sammy.“ That deep tone Dean has to his voice almost makes Sam kiss him on the spot.

It takes Sam two whole days before he runs away. Two whole days without his older brother and they are the worst of his life. Washington is beautiful and spending time with Rhoden is nice, but something is off. Something feels wrong. And it is not just a slight discomfort but the feeling of a major threat that has Sam up at three in the morning. He's not psychic, neither is his brother. But they still have this thing, this bond. Sam knows when something is wrong with Dean. And right now he knows. Just knows.

Slipping out past curfew is almost too easy. Sometimes it pays up to have John Winchester as a father. Both of the brothers are aces in breaking into or out of something. At shortly past four he's on a bus back to the shitty town their cabin is in. He almost forgot the name and had to think real hard when the woman at the counter asked him. But 'Walnut Ridge'? C'mon, those names get more and more ridiculous every day! Sam gnaws on his fingernails. A nervous tic he has since forever. The bad feeling in his stomach just won't disappear and it makes it hard for him to breathe. It feels like his throat is locked up. His brain is foggy and he just wishes he was home already. Home being not a specific place, but rather a definition for 'with Dean'. He has to make sure his brother is okay.

The bus journey takes ages. At least that's what it feels like. In reality, it only takes some hours. But when you don't know what to do time passes differently. And when you're worried sick about your brother without any reason but at the same time with all the reason in the world time almost slows to a stop. At first, Sam even thinks it's some supernatural being attacking him or something. He checks the bus. Thrice. It's just his own mind playing tricks on him. Which is worse than anything else.

It takes almost another hour to get from the train station where the bus stopped to the cabin. He has to walk. Thank God he only took a small duffel bag anyway. Like he's used to anything else. It's almost ten a.m. now. The others most probably realized he was gone by now. He couldn't care less. All they might have done is call Dean and he wouldn't care that much. If he still is alive, that is to say.

Sam can't help the sound escaping his throat. Like some kind of wounded animal. He's worried sick. What if Dean. What if. He stumbles on and on through the woods and tries to keep the panic in his chest under control. He fails gloriously. He runs the last few yards to the cabin, drops his bag way before he arrives, is all but ready to kick in the door.

He is surprised when it's open. When he can just turn the handle and let himself in. The inside of the small wooden hut is dark. All of the shutters are down and the lights are off. “Dean?“ he asks into the darkness. At first, there is no answer at all and Sam's heart rate speeds up again. His brain makes up all these obscure scenarios about how his brother was kidnapped by whatever creature might live in the woods. Then he hears a breath besides his own, ragged huffs. He's positively sure it's Dean's. Thank God. At least he's here. Then it can't be too bad.

He walks further into the dark room that is filled with stale air, like the windows hadn't been opened for days, like someone just breathed away all the oxygen. “Dean?“ he asks again. This time, an actual groan is the answer. He sounds hurt. One of the bed's old feathers are creaking. Sam almost jumps towards it. His brother is hurt. He just knows. Knows.

“Sammy?“ The voice of his brother is thick with sleep and he can barely see him in the darkness that swivels around the bed. He scoots closer in a desperate attempt to get a better look at his brother, to make sure he's okay. “Yeah. Yeah it's me,“ he manages to blurt out. He can hear Dean moving on the bed. Sudden and too quickly. “Sammy, why? Did something happen? Are you okay?“ His brother's voice sounds panicky and he scoots towards Sam, out of the shadows and into the morning light that still falls through the half-opened door. He grabs Sam by the collar of his shirt unexpectedly, almost like he has to make sure he's real and not some kind of dream.

Sam jerks away a little, surprised by the movement. For a second, all he can do is stare into his brother's big, green eyes. He could get lost in them. Has to hold himself back with all he's got because now is not the time. It's only a little late that he sees the swollen, lilac-yellow part around his brother's eye. And his busted lip. And the cut in his eyebrow. “Jesus Christ Dean,“ he breathes. His hands flutter over his brother's face carefully, just-not-yet-touching him. He knew something was up. Hell, he knew it. “Are you okay?“ he asks worriedly. Before he can add a stupidly blurted-out 'What happened?' his brother's hands shoot up towards his face and take it, cupping his jawline. The round baby-cheeks he used to have only years ago are long-gone.

Dean has this intensity to his look again, keeps Sam captured with it. And he can't look away, even if he wanted to. He shudders under his brother's touch. “Sam. Tell me. What happened. Why are you here.“ He poses the questions like statements. Asks them real slow, like he's stupid. Sam wreathes under Dean's grip, finally opens his mouth to answer. “I. I'm fine. I just had this feeling you weren't. And Dean. I. I had to come back. It was horrible being there without you.“ His cheeks heat up with the embarassement of what he just blurted out with. That was basically a declaration of love right there. He stiffens up. Hopes Dean doesn't notice.

He doesn't seem to. Thank God. All he does is let go of him and lean back onto his heels a little, knees pushed deep into the old matress. He looks relieved when his hand rubs over his face. Sam can't help but wonder what his stubble might feel like. Jesus Christ. Snap out of it! “Dean,“ he finally states into the silence. “Dean, what happened to you?“ He asks it calmly, in a low voice. Knows this is the only way he might get an answer.

“Nothin',“ his brother grumbles and retreats back into the shadows. But Sam won't let him. He has always been a clinging little fucker when he wanted to. And right now he needs to. Needs an answer. He's on the bed in under a second, scooting towards Dean. “De. You're hurt. What happened. You're hurt and you ask me if I'm fine. And now I'm asking you and I won't take 'nothing' as an answer.“ He can see it in his brother's eyes. How he winds around the question, desperately tries to find a way to not tell him. Fuck, why doesn't he just tell him already! “Dean...“ he says once again, a little threatening now.

“Okay fine.“ His brother holds his hands up in defense. They barely make it above his shoulders before he lets them fall back into his lap again. He takes a shuddering breath and Sam can't help but wonder if he went on a hunt alone again. Wouldn't have been the first time. “It's. I. Dad came by. To check on us. He didn't call. Said he was around so he just came by.“ Dean's voice breaks there. He doesn't have to say anything else, anyway.

Sam clutches his own legs. Fuck. Fuck fuck. His plan was so good. Getting Dean to lie to their father, to cover up for him. And Dean did it, like he asked him to. Of course neither of them thought their father would be back earlier or check on them. He never does. Usually comes weeks after he says he will be home, doesn't give a crap about them. But of course this one fucking time.

Sam's hand slowly rises up to touch Dean's shoulder but lands somewhere on his biceps. It's an awkward movement. “Dean,“ Sam croaks. “I'm. I'm sorry.“ Dean slowly raises his head to look at him, a small smile breaking from his split lip. “Jesus, Sammy, this isn't your fault. At all.“

“'Course it is,“ Sam insists, knowing how Dean will forever try to take all the blame. Like he did when their father found the rifle Sam broke. Or when he fought back for his little brother in sixth grade. Like he always has and always will, trying to keep all the bad from Sam. Which is ridiciulous, considering the life they lead. “It was my idea. If I just hadn't went. If I just.“ He can feel his eyes filling with water. Stupid. He has to stop this. He swore to himself long ago that he would never let his father get to him again. But this was Dean.

“Sammy that's bullshit. You wanted to go so bad. It was your dream come true. And if I had to fight dad for it again, I would do it.“ Dean is smiling now. Genuinely. Sam can't help but smile back a little. “I swear to God, the things you do for me,“ he says and realizes his hand is still burning hot on his brother's arm. He has to pull away. Quickly.

“Yeah, thank me later,“Dean chuckles when Sam is off the bed and opening the windows, letting in the fresh morning air. 

“I wanna take a look at those,“ Sam says and gestures towards the wounds on Dean's face, the first-aid-kit he always keeps in his duffel already in hand.

“Sammy, those wounds are like a day old, I don't think.“

“I don't care,“ Sam interrupts, taking a seat next to his brother on the bed again. His hands tremble a little when he cleans the cut in his lip with a tissue soaked in antiseptic. Not because he's scared to hurt Dean. He took care of his brother's wounds countless times before, but rather because his hands are suddenly very close to those lips. He could just. “Thank you,“ Dean nothing but whispers into his ear.

Sam stops what he's doing, barely believes his ears. His brother. His brother of all people thanks him. After all he's done for Sam. “No. Dean,“ he says. “Thank you.“ And he can't help it. Doesn't care. Swipes his trembling thumb over those plush lips and Christ. Christ, did Dean just shudder?


	6. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!
> 
> I'm finally done with my finals (weeeey) so this means lots of writing-time. I already started this chapter before my exams and it took me ages to finish it.  
> But have some 4000-something-words fluffy chapter as an apology.  
> I originally wanted to make this the first-kiss-scene but then it didn't feel quite right with all of the heavier stuff going on. Yup, Sammy has to carry his own lil' package as well...  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed (or even loved) it.
> 
> Love y'all loads xx

I know, I know underneath it all, we are brothers each crucified and stoned.  
\- Sebastian Sampas

When he is honest with himself it was the day of that fatal hunt in Fairfield, Iowa. That hunt Sam almost died. It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out. Vampire nest, nothing special. Something they managed at the age of twenty and sixteen, really. Who the fuck would've thought there would be ghouls involved? Honestly, who the fuck would've thought supernatural fuckers started joining forces? Let's just say it was bloody. And when he saw his little brother lying there on the ground, almost lifeless... Christ, he didn't even know he could feel this way.

That fatal hunt was when he realized it. That he couldn't do without Sam. Not anymore. That he wouldn't be able to live without his little brother in the bed right next to him. Or better his bed. Christ. That was when he realized the thing he said about love being between them might be a little too serious. A little too correct.

And right now he is on his way back to the bunker from the bar he originally planned on drinking the night away in. And it's half past eleven and he chuckles a little, hands gripping the steering wheel. He feels slightly mad. Knows he can't come home to Sam like this. Not like this and especially not to Sam of all people. Not now that it's worse than ever, the thud-thud of his heart in his chest. Because Sam can't ever know how he feels. If he would.

There's this pond close by. Well, it's more like dirt-hole filled with water but whatever. Something drives him there. Makes him turn his steering wheel again and again until he can almost see it between the trees appearing in front of him. Right and left and right and right again. He doesn't know why he comes here. Not really. It could've been any other place. He doesn't even like water that much. Sam had always been the nixen out of the two. Always on edge to jump into a pool or pond when it was hot during summer.

Dean remembers that one time they went to see the sea. Vividly. Sam was what back then? Maybe fourteen or even thirteen. He can't quite pin down which summer it was. Doesn't matter. What matters is if he thinks back now, all he remembers is Sam. Not the sea, not the shells, not the salty breeze or the birds screaming above his head. He doesn't remember the beauty of it because it was outshone. Sky-high rocketing outshone. By the caramel skin of his brother's little-boy chest that was made of nothing but bones and muscle. It was during that time Sam seemed to do nothing but grow. He was lean and skinny, a real tree of a kid.

Dean remembers the way his seventeen-year-old-stomach clenched when he looked at his brother for too long. Like it still does, all these years after. Only that now, he can put a name on the clenching, the tight feeling in his chest. Like he's dragged under water. Like Sam's taking his head and dunking him, with no plan on ever letting him breathe again for the rest of his life.

He's out of the car and next to the pond in under three seconds. The churning in his stomach doesn't do no good. He needs to get rid of it. Has to. And he leans over and gags. Nothing but a small streak of salvia leaves his mouth. Fuck fuck. He still doesn't feel right, like he can talk to Sam and pretend everything's fine. Normal. He wishes he could just wade into the water and disappear. It would make his life a whole of a fucking lot easier and Sam would never even be in the danger of finding out. Getting hurt.

Because he knows this is not normal. Knows it since Sam almost died. Before, he ignored it. Shoved it away. Pretended it was just the usual bond brothers share when they spend so much time together. Too much time. But who is he fucking kidding? This thing he feels for Sam, this brotherly love, sure as hell is a lot, just not brotherly. His hand hits his stomach before he can stop it, realizes it. The shock of the punch draws air from his lungs and water into his eyes. It feels good, better than he has in weeks. "Jesus Christ, pull yourself together," Dean says out loud to the empty woods. He turns around to walk back to the car. Enough break-down time for today.

Returning back to the bunker won't be easy. He knows it but he wants to. Even though Sam probably wouldn't expect him back by earlier than 4 am it suddenly feels like cheating if he doesn't take the shortest way home. It's like they are a married couple, Jesus. He gulps at the thought, hand tightening around the door handle. His steps seem to have left a silent echo in the woods and for a split second Dean feels like nothing of this is real. But he knows he'll have to face it, all the pretending he lately does around Sam. It almost physically hurts him. He remembers a time when they never lied to each other.

He remembers a time when they were nothing but brothers. That was so long ago. Looking back, Dean realizes there was this something ever since Sam turned thirteen or maybe fourteen. He didn't really acknowledge it back then. Now, it hurts even more. He's back in the driver's seat and speeding through the darkness. What is he supposed to tell Sammy when he's home? Should he say anything at all? His chest feels too tight with those two questions, brain working on overdrive.

"Hey Sammy, I just quickly wanted to let you know that I realized I'm in love with you a few months ago."

"Hey Sammy, remember that fight we had outside that bar? I just wanted to tell you how it made me want to kiss you senseless."

"Hey Sammy, I just want you to know I can't fall asleep next to you because I get a boner every fucking time, but at the same time I can't fall asleep in my own bed anymore."

"Hey Sammy. Baby Sammy. Sam. Little brother. I want you."

Hell no. A sob escapes Dean's rough lips and almost has him crumpling against the steering wheel. It's half a laugh and half a cry. Desperate. In any way possible. This feeling is closing around his chest again and this is totally not the time for an existential crisis. Or a panic attack, for a matter of fact. He's driving and he has to arrive in one piece. Even if not arriving at all would make things a whole of a lot easier right now.

He can see the outlines of the bunker in the dark. It's sitting right there. In the woods in the middle of nowhere. Like it wants to laugh at him. Laugh at him for dreading to enter it and at the same time craving to. It looks like nobody lives there but Dean knows their secret like he knows the little secret in his chest. This feeling he keeps to hinself. And yet, there is no way around it, no way to delay this any longer. So he stops the car and gets out, hands shaking all the way. With the Impala parked in front of it the bunker almost looks inhabited. Like a home. Jesus Dean. Only that to you, home will never be a place. It's always with his brother, no matter where they are.

It's not easy. Fiddling his key out of his back pocket and turning it around in the lock. With your hands shaking like that. Pushing the door is harder than usual. It feels like it suddenly weighs a ton more. And it's not even that he specifically planned on telling Sam tonight, but it's rather that he knows he can't just stay silent about this. Now that he's figured it out. He has to do something. He's always been a man of action. As well as one of words, as a matter of fact. So this shouldn't be this damned hard for him.

Entering the bunker is something final. Like the last piece of a puzzle. Dean can hear music somewhere down the main hall. Good. That means Sam's in his room. Because it's the only place he listens to music, God knows why. Good. This means he still has a little time to brace himself for the confession he's going to make tonight. Thinking about it makes him stop dead in his tracks. He's still so fucking scared, too fucking scared. Shouldn't be. Listening closer, he realizes Sam put on The Doors' 'This Is The End'. He smiles. It's the only classic rock song Sam probably ever actually liked. He endured having to listen to the rest of them. At best.

Also, Sam only listenes to 'This Is The End' when. When he is. When he is. Jesus fucking Christ. Dean's fear and shaking and stiffness are blown away by something else. Maybe worry. Or even panic. He's not sure. Not sure there's actually something he can put his finger on that makes him dart up to Sam's room like a crazy man or if it's plain instinct. 

The door is open. Like hell. Sammy's door is never open. Never has been ever since they stopped sharing rooms. He doesn't know why exactly but Sam has always hated the lack of privacy that came with their lifestyle. Hated it, while Dean craves it like a drowning man craves air. Craves the closeness to Sam. It used to be dad as well, but ever since he's gone. Ever since he's gone it's only and absolutely Sam. And it feels so right it makes him sick. 

Sam is on the bed. The Doors are playing. His breath is deep and even. Too even. Dean can see it from several feet away. He more runs than walks to the bed. His toe catches on the leg of a chair. He doesn't really register it. He skids. His brain is a useless dump of SammySammySamSammy. Just like it has been for the whole last few weeks. Sam's breathing is still too flat.

"Sammy?" Dean croaks out as he hunches down over his brother. His stomach pressed against Sam's back. Too hot. Too close of a touch. Shush, now is not the time for this. His hands are in the long strieks of his little brother's hair before he can think about what he is doing. He pushes them back back until he can see Sammy's eyes. They're closed. "Sammy?" His voice is ragged. Like he just screamed his lungs out. He feels like crying and The Doors are making fun of him. 

No safety or surprise, the end  
I'll never look into your eyes, again

Not again. Jesus, not again! Dean knows what to do. Sadly, he knows exactly what to do. And his body switches to auto-pilot like it always does if things are a matter of life and death. If feelings would just get in the way. Are of no use. Like every so often. Thank God, Dean knows what to do. Because saving his little brother, that's basically all he's ever done his whole life. It's the only thing he's actually good at.

He really doesn't wanna hurt Sammy, really doesn't. But he knows the slap has to be a hard one. He knows it's like drowning and the slap is the saving hand that pulls you back up so you can gasp for air. The side of his hand connects with Sam's jar. It's gonna bruise. His head whips around but he's still asleep. C'mon Sammy! He hits him again. With all he's got. All he manages to have when it comes to his little brother. If it were a vamp or werewolf he's hitting it would be easy to use much more force. C'mon!

Finally, Sam's eyes spring open. He looks drowsed. Like a narcotized animal. Which he basically is right now. "Sam? Sammy? Look at me. Sam." Sam's confused. Whips his head around. Doesn't know where the voice comes from. His eyes never focus on Dean. He doesn't even recognize him. He doesn't even know anyone's in this room but him. Doesn't even know who he is. The sob escapes Dean's mouth before he can stop himself. Christ, he can't lose him. Not like this. Not now, dammit. He has to know how much it was.

"Sam. Sammy, look at me. Sam." No reaction. Dean tries to stay calm. Tries as hard as he can. "Sam. How many. I need you to tell me how many you took." No reaction. His brother's head is lolling around in his hands and his eyes are fluttering shut again. Fuck fuck. He's mumbling something, just before his head finally comes to a still. Dean really tries to understand it. "Each crucified". It's all he can make out. And it doesn't make sense and he can't think about it right now.

He's back in hunting mode, all survivor. Sam is in a sitting position in under three seconds. He's in the bathroom in under a minute. Dean didn't expect him to be this light, this easy to carry. Maybe it's the adrenaline. He's in the tub in under thirty seconds and first things first. Dean makes him throw up. He counts. One, two, three. Three aren't even digested yet. Thank God. That's a good sign. Thank God he came home earlier than planned.

The Doors are still on. It's the beginning of this goddamned song again. 

This is the end, beautiful friend  
This is the end, my only friend, the end

He turns on the cold water just a little. Just so it dribbles onto Sam's head and doesn't drown him. Just so it keeps his body's circulation up long enough for him to check. Check on the package of pills on the nightstand. Thank God it's a brand new one, so he just has to count. Six. Sam took six. Relief washes over him in waves. He feels like drowning. Like breaking down. Six aren't enough to kill his little brother. Just enough to knock him out good. Dean sends a quick prayer of gratefulness to whoever is the head of state up there at the moment. He's pretty sure Cas will mock him about it later. He doesn't really care. Sammy will be fine.

It's this thought that keeps his knees from just buckling in then and there. From his body finally giving up. All the things he does now are mere muscle memory, he's sure. He goes back into the bathroom and makes Sam throw up a second time, trying to ignore the slick heat his brother's tongue leaves on his finger. Fuck. He strips Sam down to his boxers right then and there and manages to carry him back to his bed before finally giving in. Finally breaking down.

His legs give in and he falls onto the bed head-first. It's not pleasant. He's shivering violently all over and suddenly he feels like throwing up. He almost does. Leans over the bed, ratches. Nothing comes out. With a sigh he closes his eyes and drifts off into nowhere. He's not asleep. Not really. But the room has this dream-like quality to it. He's pretty sure if he would go to a doctor right now he would be diagnosed with a shock.

Dean wakes up because something too-hot is shifting next to him. He doesn't know how long it's been since he fell asleep. Since he last checked his brothet's pulse to see if he is still alive. Fuck. He's awake in a matter of seconds. Fuck. His hand shoots up to Sam's carotid and his fingers press down on the soft skin in his neck harder than necessary. The thump-thumping of Sam's flowing blood is a strong sensation under Dean's fingers. He's so relieved.

His left elbow still propped up on Sam's chest, the other hand still on his neck, he lets his head fall down down down. And it's spinning a little until his forehead hits the bare chest. And while their breathing was almost in sync up to now, Dean's pace quickens. Christ this is so wrong. So wrong. But Sam smells good, even with all the sweat of a pill-drugged night on his skin. Even with all the whiskey coming off him in waves. Hell, he's so gone.

That something - his little brother, baby brother - is shifting beneath him again. "Dean?" he rasps, but it comes out more like a 'eannnng', his voice raspy from the alcohol and throwing up. Dean had only recognized the bottle of Jack on the chair he nearly tripped over when he found Sammy earlier that night after he had tucked his brother in and collapsed onto the bed himself. It was the reason he decided to stay up and check on Sam's pulse every few minutes. Instead of giving in to the overwhelming need for sleep washing over him.

Dean is awake in a matter of seconds. His head shoots up from his brother's chest, green eyes searching for more colourful ones. He can't help that strange, too quick breath escaping his open lips. His pupils are dilated to twice their usual size. It's now that he realizes how he's basically lying on top of his brother, his thigh pressed too close to Sam's crotch. Sam writhes underneath him once again but he can't pull away. Not after last night. Not after Sam almost. Almost. Not again.

"De, what are you... what..." Sam's voice is still trashed. Breathtakingly so. Rough and deep and too much. He trails off whatever question he wanted to ask when his eyes fall onto the package of pills next to his bed. His eyes go wide and Dean knows he remembers. Remembers their last fight and how Dean told him he'd take him to a hospital the next time this happened. The first time is so long ago, he sometimes thinks he dreamt it. They were teens back then. When Sam looks back at Dean's face, so close to his, his eyes go even wider. If that is possible. 

His brother starts kicking under his weight that's still straddling him. Dean knows Sam is having a small-scale panic attack. God, they're both so fucked in the head. No wonder dad hated them at the end. Everyone would. They only had each other now and he would never give this away. "Shhh, shhhh," Dean says quietly, just like he used to do when Sam was a kid and scared of the thunder outside. He pushes his fingers through Sammy's hair and can't believe how soft it is. How alive his brother feels under his fingertips. He's more than thankful for it. "It's gonna be fine, everything's gonna be fine. 'm here now." He doesn't know if he says it to console Sam or himself. Doesn't matter.

About two hours later, Sam is able to walk over to the kitchen on wobbly knees and sit at the table. He only bumps his hip twice while trying to take a seat, Dean notices. He's gonna get some nasty-ass bruises and Dean makes a mental note to get some ice for it later. For now, forcing him to drink a glass of water and eat a piece of dry bread has to be enough. It's almost scary how well Dean can deal with this situation. How much of a routine it's become. Not that it happens every month but still, more often than he'd like to count.

Sam sits at the table, nipping at his water and still looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Dean can't help but notice how beautiful his brother is as he takes the chair opposite him. They both know they have to have The Talk. They both hate The Talk. Dread it. Because it usually ends with one of them being hurt. And for Dean it's even worse. Because hurting Sammy is just as bad as hurting himself. So he always comes out of it bruised. Sometimes physically, sometimes just mentally.

"Dean, I-" Sam starts, but his brother waves him off. He knows the younger Winchester doesn't really know what he should say. Sam has never been good with moments like this. Neither has he. But he has to this time. Has to fix it. "Look Sam, I'm not gonna. I'm not. I know what I said last time but please. Just promise me it won't happen again." Dean's hands are roaming his face like they always do when he's stressed. When he's on the verge of breaking. His heart does a leap when he sees Sam looking up at him slowly, head still bowed. Puppy-dog eyes.

"Sammy." He says it so softly, he almost doesn't hear it himself. "Sammy, I can't lose you, okay? Not. Not again and not like this and." He has to stop. Has to keep his throat from hitching. Get yourself together, for fuck's sake. "Please. Tell me this isn't about Kev," he adds, hoping the answer will be a simple 'yesi'msorryiwon'tagain'. Hopes the topic will be over then. Forgive and forget.

Of course, Sam's not that easy. He places his hands on the table behind his glass. Long fingers fidgeting. Fighting for the best place in this finger-knot. Dean can't tear his eyes away. Partly because the movement makes him nervous, partly because he desperately wants to touch them. "It's not." Sam's voice is still raspy. "It's not about Kevin. It's uh. It's about everything." Dean waits. Knows his brother needs time to evaluate. Won't do so if he rushes. Dean does it before his brain properly registers. His hands are on Sam's, clutching them with a force he didn't think was possible. Heat rushes through him and he's pretty sure his heart skips one or two beats. Oh God. "Tell me," he whispers.

"Dean, it's not. It's just." Sam tears his hands away and Dean is left sitting in shock. Almost like he burned him. He needs the touch back. He couldn't fathom how his heart craved it so much. "It's nothing. Just. Leave me alone." And Dean knows this. This tone to his brother's voice. Those hard lines around his mouth. The way he makes an attempt at trying to get up. Not this time, though. He's not gonna let him off this time.

He's up faster than Sammy. Blocks his way out of the kitchen just as the taller man stands up. They're incredibly close, Dean registers somewhere in the back of his mind. Their chests are almost touching. They breathe each other's breath. Dean starts counting the colours in Sam's eyes. He almost gets lost. Needs to focus. "Don't. Don't fucking push me away all the time, Sam! And especially not now. Not when it comes to this! You tried to fucking kill yourself, Jesus Christ!"

He didn' want it to come out as harsh as it did. But it does its duty. Sam breaks at it. His head is bowed and fuck, some strieks of his hair are falling over his eyes and touching Dean's forehead. He shivers. "That's not. I didn't. I couldn't. Dean, you know how much I took. It could've never killed me." Sam sounds so defeated. And of course it's no excuse. Or explanation of any sorts. But at the moment, it is good enough for Dean. His hands are on his brother's chest in a matter of seconds. He's clutching at his shirt, at the muscles and skin underneath. Sam's hands draw up his lower back almost out of habit. The touch pulls Dean even closer to his brother. He needs this. The warmth, the heartbeat, the everything. Sam. He needs Sam.

His brother bows his head a little more, nuzzling his face into Dean's short strands and he could cry with happiness. The feel of it. "Christ, we're so fucked. This is so wrong. Crucified and stoned, let me tell you. Fuck," is what Sam mumbles into Dean's hair. And he stiffens up upon hearing the words, muscles going on lockdown. "Is that why?" he asks silently.

Sam shrugs over him. "I dunno," he says and it sounds like more of a truth than anything they told each other in weeks. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever dare thinking we are wrong," Dean says. His brother's hands draw up his back further, pressing against the small space between his shoulder blades. And Christ. He is pressing a kiss on top of Dean's head. His lips feel like they belong. Dean almost cries. Doesn't know how to feel. He's rarely ever been this happy in his life. Thank God his brother can't see his face right now. He wouldn't know how to sort out, let alone hide all those emotions.

Thank God his brother always exactly knows what he needs. "Bed?" Sam asks. "Bed," is the muffled answer.


	7. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is shorter again.  
> Also, it has a calmer feel to it than the other chapters (at least I feel like it does).
> 
> Love y'all! Always keep fighting!
> 
> J.

Sunday I came home and my nerves were all shot. I began to think of my father and I went into a complete nervous collapse.  
\- Jack Kerouac

Maybe Dean is a little drunk. Okay, maybe he is piss drunk. Who the fuck cares. The only person to tell him off always drinks himself. The only person to tell him off is dead. Burned and buried six feet under. Jesus fucking Christ. His brain can't complete the thought but his heart knows it. Knows it too well. Dad is dead.

And Dean used to be so good. So good at it. At coping with all this shit. Funny how now he can barely see straight. The thing is, usually, he's shaking. He's bawling into his pillow. Screaming, punching. He's always been the one to put his feelings out there. The introvert thing usually was Sam's part. The pondering, broody, mysterious guy. Dean is none of that. Right now, though, he's too calm. Has been for the last few days.

It's like nothing matters anymore. He just drives and hunts and eats. He knows he works on auto-pilot but he can't change anything about it. It's almost like nothing's there anymore. Nothing to fight for. To live for. Nothing to search. He's not sure he would still be around if Sammy wasn't here. Sammy who forces him to sleep once in a while. Sammy who gets food into his system. Sammy who doesn't handle dad's death as well as Dean thought he would.

In fact, he heared him cry in the bed next to his last night. He's sure Sammy thought he was fast asleep. No need to tell him that, in fact, he hasn't slept for more than two hours straight in almost a month. It doesn't really make sense. Sam crying over dad. They never were close. On the contrary. And after Stanford, things between them went downhill even more. Dean is supposed to be the one crying. And he doesn't feel a damn thing. Hasn't for weeks.

Except that now, now that he's home at three in the morning and drunk off his face, things come crashing down. Almost a month after everything happened. After dad sacrificed. Sacrificed himself for Dean and. And told him. About Sammy. Dean can feel his heart clench at the thought. Of what he might have to do. And he knows, just knows, that if it really comes down to it, he would never be able to do it. To hurt his little brother in any way.

He fiddles with the lock of the motel room door for a little too long, hands shaking. Tries to enter as quietly as possible so he doesn't wake up Sam. Who is fast asleep at the table, the laptop in front of him displaying the screensaver. His head is pushed beneath his arms and he looks so young again. Dean almost feels like crying. He tiptoes past his sleeping brother as fast as he can, eyes on his soft curls for as long as possible. He only trips twice.

He knows he has a problem now. Now that dad's not here anymore. The thing is, the problem is not that dad's not here to help them hunt anymore. It's that he's not here to hold him back anymore. There's this strange feeling in his chest whenever he looks at his brother and it's growing bigger and bigger every day. Dean tries to push it back, really does and John was one of the main reasons he actually pushed through with it. Pushed through with resisting the urge to touch Sam's hand for a little longer. To rake his fingers through his hair like he did when they were really really young.

Now that reason is gone. All but gone and leaves him behind in this vacuum of a lack of emotions and too much liquor. Not the best of combinations. 

Dean tiptoes over to the rotting bathroom and closes the door behind him a little too loud. He can't stand thinking about this thing - whatever it is - for too long. It makes his head spin. Makes him sick. He feels like he has to vomit but he's pretty sure he doesn't. Still, he leans onto the sink close to the toilet. Just to make sure.

He looks at his hands. They are shaking like crazy. Even when he presses them to his face in a weak attempt to make them stop. He's desperate. Desperate to be able to talk to his dad again. For one last time. He always knew what to do with dad. Knew how to behave, how to obey. Now that this security is lost, he feels uprooted. Floats somewhere between here and nowhere. Jesus Christ.

He can feel the tears welling in his eyes before they start falling but he doesn't stop them. Motel bathrooms have that kind of calming privacy one needs for a good cry. No one there to see or hear you. No one there to care. And before he can register it properly, the older Winchester is leaning his elbows onto the sink, head burried in his hands, full-on sobbing. Before he registers it, he's praying. Or whatever one might call it.

"John?" he manages to get out through gritted teeth, tasting the salt of his own tears as he opens his lips. "Dad. Please. Why... why me. Why everything, why this, why Sammy, just." The heels of his hands press into his eyes. Hard. Painfully. "Jesus, I. Just. Dad, I can't do this. I'm not cut out, okay. I can't. I'm not." He doesn't know what he is talking about himself. Just that his voice is raspy, throat clogged with tears. He feels numb again. Doesn't really know what made him start crying in the first place. This is friggin dumb.

"John. Dad," he manages to get out one last time, voice breaking. That is it for today. He knows he won't be able to do anything else. He wishes he wouldn't even be able to breathe. Dean doesn't notice when the bathroom door opens. He's too far gone.

"Dean?" He whips his head around, desperately trying to whipe away his tears. Desperate to destroy all evidence of his little break-down. He fails gloriously. Sam looks worried, he registers, has those wrinkles on his forehead. The next thing he registers is Sam's shirt. It's a little short at the sleeves. He wears it open over a grey short-sleeved shirt. He wears it open because the buttons wouldn't fit. Because it's Dean's shirt. Because his little brother has grown into a fucking giant at some point. And once again Dean is reminded of all the things he missed while Sam was at Stanford.

Somewhere in the back of his mind the older brother realizes that neither of them has spoken for almost a minute. That they're having a little stare-down. But he can't really bring his vocal chords to work. Doesn't really know what to say. He feels a lone tear trailing down his cheek again and he whipes it away, hiccuping. The little sound seems to shake something inside Sam because the lines on his forehead soften and he takes a step closer towards his brother.

Dean has the sudden urge to take a step back, but he can't with the sink pressing against his back. He's not even sure why. Maybe because suddenly, all of this feels too close. Maybe because he still feels shaky from his breakdown. Maybe because he just wants to get away from this whole situation of dad being dead.

"Dean," Sam rasps. "Is it because of dad?" He can't remember Sam ever calling John 'dad' and he would have laughed if he wasn't so damn done with everything. And all he can do is lie. Like he does way too often with Sam. Fuck. He shakes his head quickly. "'m fine, Sam." He doesn't even convince himself with it.

"Don't bullshit me, Dean." His brother sounds a little angry. Who can blame him? "I heared you talking. I'm not stupid. You've been off ever since dad died. Just... please talk to me?" In the end he actually sounds like he's begging. Puppy dog eyes. Fuck, this asshole knows Dean's weak spots. And with him wearing Dean's clothes. He already knows Sam is going to get what he wants. Already knows they are going to talk. Still, he gets all defensive about it. It's a protectional mechanism he's built up over years. Hard to push back.

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks. "You tell me jack shit about anything and suddenly you wanna talk all chick-flick-like? And since when did you call him 'dad'?" He knows he's hit a wound spot. Regrets it the moment he sees Sammy's eyebrows scrunching up. When he did this is a kid, he was close to crying. And Dean doesn't know if he can deal with Sam crying as well right now.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Sam shoots back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. His biceps is bulging out and for a short fraction of a second, Dean is honest to God distracted by it. "Dean." Sam pasues after this. Like he wants his brother to register the way he said his name. Like it's important, like he means it. "Do you think i don't miss him?" he finally states. "He was my father, too."

"Yeah," Dean scoffs. Suddenly, he doesn't feel like crying anymore. He feels like thrashing something. Because dad and him, they were a team for so long. It was always just them, for nearly three years. And Sam had left them. On his own account. And he never realized how much he hurt both of them with it. How he never even apologized. It was just dad and him for so long. And now Sam comes along thinking he actually has some stupid claim to be sad. To ruin Dean's mourning. "Like you ever cared."

And Dean is pretty sure this comment of his would have evoked a biblical fight when they were kids. Hell, it might have evoked some major grabbling just a few months ago. But not now. He's done. And Sam looks drained. Maybe a little disappointed. And all he does is press those lips of his together in a flat line and leave the room. Not even a second after his brother is out of the room Dean feels bad about it.

He knows how much his father's death pulled him down. And if it only made Sam feel a fraction of what he feels, his little brother has all the right in the world to be sad. Still, it's hard for him to talk to Sam. To just look him in the eye. Because he knows this thing Sam doesn't that changes everything. That makes him try to not get too attached to his brother again. It is a desperate attempt and useless. Deep down, he knows it. Because the time they spent apart only made him crave Sam's presence more. He's in way too deep already.

Finally, he manages to make his legs walk him into the motel room again. Sam didn't sit down back in front of the laptop. He's on the bed now, back towards Dean, long limbs curled all the way up to his chest. He used to sleep like this all the time as a kid. Curled up into a ball and Dean curled around him like a second blanked. He remembers how warm it used to be. How soft, how safe. He misses this kind of stuff. Misses still being a little innocent.

"Hey Sasquatch," he says softly before he sits down at the other end of Sam's bed. He hasn't called him that in years. It's as close to an apology as he will get tonight and Sam knows it. Slowly, he turns his upper body around so he can look at Dean awkwardly. "You wanna share?" his little brother asks, patting onto the blanked that still lies on the bed untouched. Dean shakes his head. His breakdown and the little almost-fight with Sam earlier drained him and he's still a little drunk. If he cuddles up under a blanked now he'd fall asleep right away. And he can't do that. He has to sort out some stuff first.

Sam finally turns around completely and sits up so they can have a proper conversation. Dean sits down next to him and leans his back against the cool wooden headrest. It feels good. Helps him keep a clear head with all the alcohol still buzzing around slightly. For a long time, neither of the brothers says anything. Sam is fiddling with the ribbon of his joggers. Dean can't stop looking at his face. At the same time, he can't stop thinking about their dad. Lying there in the hospital bed. Very young and very dead. He can feel his lip starting to quiver again and bites down hard. He's pretty sure he can taste the copper of blood.

All of a sudden, Sam reaches over and takes his chin in his hands. Long fingers resting just underneath his chin where Dean's skin gets all soft, thumb slowly tracing over the chivering front. Dean's mind goes blank. He's also pretty sure his heart just skipped several beats. And that feeling in his stomach is back again. This churning, but like in a good way. "I know Dean, okay?"

At first, the older Winchester is confused as to what exactly his brother is talking about. Did dad tell him as well? He wouldn't be so calm then, though, would he? After all, it is about his life or death. Besides, he is pretty sure Sam still hasn't figured out why and how exactly their father died. But Dean realized over the time it usually was best to keep silent and eventually have Sam tell him what he meant himself. This method has proven safer than asking rash questions which would do nothing but reveal things he didn't want his brother to know.

"I know how hard this is on you. How much you miss him. This man was your fucking knight in shining armour. I get it. Just, please don't work yourself up about this too much. You pretend like it's all your fault but it really isn't. No one could do anything for or against him. You hear me?" Throughout his whole rant Sam's hand doesn't leave Dean's face. And his mind really has difficulty working properly at that. So all he does is whisper "I hear you."

He can't tell Sam that, in fact, this is all his fault. That this time it's not even his stupid projection-complex which always makes him believe things are his fault. This time, things are simply and legitimately true. Their dad literally sacrificed himself. For Dean. If it wasn't for Dean dying, their father would still be alive and kickin'. and he can't think about that for too long. Feels the tears welling up again. Has to find a reason not to look at Sam. And his brother's shoulder is a good one.

He buries his head there. Right where the last strands of Sam's hair tickle his neck. And Christ, this feels incredibly nice. Sam is all warm and soft skin over hard muscle and it makes Dean feel stupidly safe. His brother's hands are around his back and he feels like he's floating through a whole other universe. The Sam-universe. He breathes into his brother's neck. He smells good. Like Sam. Like their childhood. Dean is somehow glad at least this hasn't changed. The almost too-sweet smell of his brother's skin.

"Dean? You okay?" He's pretty sure he has never heared his brother talk this softly. He's a sucker for it already. And that's when he knows he's in too deep. Too deep to actually do what their father asked him to. All he can do is nod into the crook of Sam's neck. Oh God.

Later, they have settled next to each other. Dean has almost sobered up and the blanked is thrown over their knees. Their backs are up against the headboard again, shoulders touching. Dean enjoys the heat radiating off Sam's skin. Soaks it up. The TV is on in the background, silently playing some reality show. The Kardashians or Jeopardy, most probably. Sam's arm is slung behind Dean's neck and keeps him tucked tightly beside him. His brother's long fingers are circling over his shoulder slowly, leaving endless trails of warmth.

"Hey Dean." Sam's voice is so soft. Dean wants to close his eyes and sleep. "Hmmm," he manages to murmur. He feels somewhat tired now. For the first time in ages it's not the drained-tired but the good kind of tired, the one where you are comfortable and warm and match your breathing with the person sleeping next to you. "D'ya remember this one time we drove up to Arizona with dad?" Dean nods at that. He does remember. The only vacation he can consciously recall. He must've been around ten then.

"D'ya remember how sunny it was up there? You got sunburned real good," Sam chuckles and Dean realizes what he's doing. He's trying to distract him from all this shit. From dad not being around and from him feeling lost. He's thankful for it. Thankful for the childhood story his brother's telling him.

"D'ya remember what you used to do every time we stopped for gas?" At first, Dean is a little confused at Sam's question. He tries to remember what he means but his brain is thickly fogged with sleep. Just as he opens his mouth to lazily ask his brother what exactly he's talking about, Sam speaks again. "Every time dad went inside to get some food or go to the bathroom.- You would, uh." Sam stops for a second and Dean turns to look at him, can see his adam's apple wobble. His eyes wander up to Sammy's lips and he has to gulp himself. Has to force himself to look away.

"You would let me sit on your lap and uh. You would suck those bruises onto my shoulder. Remember?" He can hear how his brother's voice gets a little wobbly towards the end, but he doesn't say anything. Because, fuck, of course he remembers. It was a stupid game of theirs. They just found out sucking on the other boy's skin would make these bruises appear. They always did it because they thought it was funny to see them appear and get darker. they would try to make them in the shape of animals. Dean clearly remembers sucking a 'D' into Sam's skin at one point of that roadtrip. It was a game. They were children back then. Didn't realize what it meant.

Thinking about it now drives heat into Dean's cheeks and Sam must've seen because he drops the topic. But he doesn't stop circling his fingers over Dean's skin. Suddenly, his shoulder feels over-sensitive. He can feel Sam's warm breath on his face. He doesn't want this to end. Whatever this is. Between them. So he snuggles up against Sam's side, who is still wearing Dean's shirt. He pushes the flannel to the side so he can bury his nose in Sam's undershirt.

Dean doesn't remember when he falls asleep. The only thing he does remember is his thoughts shifting from their father's death and his feelings of guilt to Sam and the warmth of the bed for the first time in weeks. This night, he actually sleeps almost five hours straight.


	8. Soulless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was kinda hard on me since it doesn't actually involve any brother-on-brother-action (that sounded wrong but you know what I mean :)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy nevertheless.  
> Love you, Always keep fighting!  
> J.

You wake up in the middle of the night wondering if you once had a soul and trying your damnedest to know you have one.  
\- Sebastian Sampas

There are too many voices behind and in front of Sam. They are too loud, too extatic, too happy. He can't do it any longer. Pretend that he is fine in the middle of all those drunk people. Slowly, he shoves his way towards the entrance of whatever sorority he landed in this time. He doesn't want to deal with all of this shit now but sometimes it just comes up. Appears out of nowhere.

When Sam first arrived at Stanford he was fucking happy, extatic even. This was all he ever wanted, all he ever worked for. Finally he was done with all the bullshit his life consisted of. Done with motels, endless road trips, changing schools, yelling at his father and hunting. Most importantly hunting. How freakishly stupid was it to get into life-threatening fights night after night after night after. What he hadn't realized at the time - properly realized - was that it also meant no Dean. Not ever again.

It is an unspoken agreement between him and the ghost of his family or whatever is left of it floating around that he is not to call either dad or Dean under any circumstances. In return, they will never call him either. He knows his dad does it out of spite. To punish him, to show him exactly how much he means to him. Like he hasn't realized it is nothing the day his father stopped teling him "I love you" before tucking him in. Which was so long ago, Sam can't even remember.

The problem is he's not sure why Dean does it. Maybe because it would hurt him too much. Becuase he misses his baby brother a little more than he should. He hopes that's it. It's what he dreams about every night: Dean appearing in the door of his dorm room like some knight in fucking shining armour. Dragging him into the Impala, telling him how sorry he is, how much he missed him, how much he. Sam shakes his head. It's fuzzy. He's a little drunk and shouldn't think about stuff like this. Shouldn't think about Dean like this. But when exactly has that ever stopped him?

He suspects that actually, Dean doesn't call him because he's fucking mad. Mad about Sam leaving. About Sam neglecting their family like that. About Sam denying his roots. Not that they were much of a family in the end anyway. But thinking about his brother like this hurts even more. So he replays the image of lovesick Dean over and over again. Of him lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and missing Sam at four in the morning. He replays it in his head until he almost believes it.

The party in the house behind him is still too loud. It hurts his head. He has to get out of here. It's five in the morning when Sam finally arrives at his dorm. He doesn't know how a walk that usually takes him twenty minutes could take him an hour tonight. Then again, he lately doesn't know anything anymore. It's hard for him to focus on anything. Let it be school or his books or running. He's on the school's track team and he nails every competition but he can never quite shake the feeling that he is actually running from something. Rather than towards the finish line.

When he first came to Palo Alto he didn't really know what to do with his time. He never had a whole day to himself. He sat around his dorm for ages, just staring holes into the air. He bets his roommate was worried. It is better now. After a year or so. But he's still not used to it. Everything he does feels kinda forced. Like he's just pretending to have a say in what he wants to do and any minute dad is gonna bust in and tell him off for procrastinating instead of doing some sparring with Dean.

Dean. Sam sighs and throws his too-tall body onto his small bed after he closed the door behind him. Chris is still somewhere. Out. He probably won't be home until about eleven in the morning. His roommate is very tolerant when it comes to Sam's strange behavioural patterns and doesn't ask a lot of questions. The younger Winchester is quite thankful for that. He really doesn't want to explain himself to anyone. Especially not ever since he realized that that thing popped up again. That thing he thought he left behind somewhere at the end of high school. Apparently, he hasn't. He's counting calories again. He isn't as hung up on it as he used to be, but it is there. Always sitting there at the back of his head, ready to crawl out whenever things get bad.

And things usually get bad when he thinks about his older brother too much. About how much he misses to say his name, to get his hair ruffled by him. To hear his voice, to steal his shirts. To look at him in the morning, when his eyes are still small and sleep-ridden and a huge cup of coffee is sat in front of him. To steal touches after a hunt when they patch each other up. To claw at him when he feels too small, when he feels like a toddler again. Dean was his anchor for so long, Sam knows he will drift away from being himself eventually. It is inevitable.

Sam ushers into the corner of his bed where it joins the college-yellow painted wall. Maybe, maybe if he curls up real small he will suddenly turn six years old again. And Dean will lie next to him then and hold him and things will be fine. For the first time in over a year. Sam hugs his long legs to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. Dean doesn't appear. Of course not. He can't even remember how often he wished for this now. And it never happens. Not at Christmas, not at his birthday. Not even at the day their mother died. It was the first time Sam was forced to survive that day on his own. It was the worst time. He almost didn't survive. Alcohol poisoning galore. Afterwards, he vomited his soul out.

That. That right there is it. His soul. He feels like it's gone. Like it's not there anymore ever since he left Dean. It's probably pretty legitimate, he thinks bitterly. It wouldn't surprise him if his brother actually owns his soul. Christ, he would be happy about it. Would give it to him willingly.

Sam presses his fingernails into his chest like he is trying to reach for something that isn't there anymore. It's not gonna draw blood. Sam has taken precautions and cut his nails close to where his flesh begins ever since the last time he clawed his thighs open. It was an accident, he swears. He thinks... That's what he told the nurse, at least. When they were younger, Dean would take care of wounds like that for Sam. Now, some nurse does it for him and her fingers feel bony and clammy and wrong.

Sam wants to cry, but he can't. Instead, he closes his eyes. They feel sore and he feels drained from doing nothing for so long. From missing a person so much. Sam is nineteen, turning twenty soon and he shouldn't feel like this. This old, this done with being here. Jesus, fuck, wasn't this what he always wanted?

He wakes up when a huge hand grabs his shoulder and shakes it. He must have fallen asleep at some point, then. Good to know he is still able to sleep, apparently. Cause sometimes he's pretty sure he isn't. The hand on his shoulder is warm and solid and for a second, he thinks it's his brother's. His eyes fly wide open in a matter of seconds and his body bolts around, nerves shot. "Dean?" he mumbles, sleep-coated brain not quite yet processing what he sees.

"No, dude. It's me," Chris says in his thick Californian accent. Sam falls back on the matress and rubs his eyes. They still feel sore. Like he hasn't slept at all. Like he cried all night. Which he's pretty sure he didn't. "Christ, Sam, what happened here?" his roommate askes. That's when Sam registers it. A soft scrunch underneath him every time he moves, like dry autumn leaves. Slowly, he props up on one elbow and looks beneath him. Whatever he might have expected to see, it certainly isn't this.

There are small pieces of paper scattered everywhere. On his matress, on the floor next to it, on his desk. Literally everywhere. Sam couldn't move without touching one, even if he wanted to. Chris's side of the room is absolutely void of any paper. Thank God, is the first thing that pops into his mind. That means less tidying up. The next thing he does is wonder. How the fuck did all those notes come here? They look like reverse snow. Black and blue biro-snowflakes scattered on white ground. When Sam looks closely he suddenly realizes. The biro-snowflakes suspiciously look like his handwriting.

He doesn't even register Chris is still standing there, staring at him, as he carefully picks one of the papers up. It is ragged at the edges. Like it was torn out of a notebook or something. His eyes scoot to the notebooks piled on his desk. Fuck. Oh please, fuck. Don't let this be. But it's exactly that. All the lovesick letters, beginnings of diary entries and short pieces of prose he dedicated to his brother over the last year. He collected them in those notebooks. Treasured them. They were his to see and only his. And now they lay scattered everywhere. Worse, they were torn and lost forever. How on earth did that happen?

Sam can feel tears dwelling in his eyes and quickly runs the back of his hands over them. It's not that he doesn't want to cry because he thinks it's weak. That was always Dean's part. No, he doesn't want to cry in front of Chris. Because, first of all, he doesn't want him to know just how much this stuff meant to him. And second of all, if he starts having a breakdown now Chris definitely would go to the nurse. And he doesn't need any of that shit right now. So he takes in a shaky breath and forces himself to look up at his roommate with as steady of a look as he can manage. "Chris can you... Would it be okay if you left for a little?" he asks weakly.

Chris shrugs. Sam once again thanks the heavens or whatever there is for a roommate like this. "Sure thing. I was gonna meet up with Jess for breakfast anyway. Is two hours enough?" Sam nods shortly and with that the other student is gone. Sam closes his eyes. He can feel the wetness on his cheeks but he doesn't stop it. He hasn't cried in what feels like ages and it feels kinda good. Like he can finally admit some things to himself. Not that he would ever say them out loud. Or even think them out loud. But the shape at the back of his head suddenly becomes more concrete and he's fine with it. The shape that are the feelings he has for his brother.

He's not sure how much time has passed. Could be a minute, could be half an hour, could be a year. For all he cares. Sam picks up one of the pieces next to his head. "ove. And that's such a strange thing to say. I know you don't feel like you're worth it, Dean. But you are. You are you are. Th" He picks up another one "ake up in the middle of the night wondering if you once had a soul and trying your damnedest to know you have one.' That is me, De" And another one "miss you and I'm sorry and I'm a wreck just please call promise that you'll c"

He remembers writing this. It was during his second week here. He knows how he felt back then. Still feels like this, underneath it all. Suddenly, the paper between his index finger and thumb becomes too hot. Burns him up from the inside. He lets go of it like it is poisonous. It sails to the ground. Like a leaf would. Like it doesn't even care how much it means to Sam. The younger Winchester knows what he has tod do. He has to get rid of this. All this stuff. Physically and mentally. Once Sam makes a decision, he does things thoroughly. He's the all-or-nothing type of guy. That mentality opened up so many opportunities for him. Like college. Like breaking out of the vicious circle his life was. It also slammed many doors shut. Like his relationship with Dean. That door practically doesn't exist anymore. Never will.

So Sam gets up, wipes away his last tears and begins tidying his room. He does it mechanically, without thinking. The whole time, he hums Wasting My Time by Default. He heard it on the radio just a few days ago. Dean would hate him for it. Would say that this is anything but certainly not real rock music. Secretly, Sam hopes his brother might bask into the room and tell him off for it any second. It doesn't happen. Things like that never happen.

It takes Sam about half an hour to gather all the papers and put them into two black trash bags. He thought about burning them, really did. But he's pretty sure it's not allowed to start a fire on college grounds. Also, he doesn't have the heart to do it. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he believes that Dean simply knows everything he wrote down over the year. That their connection is so strong his brother somehow knows. Burning his notes would be like cutting the last string that connects him to Dean. Instead, he opens his closet, which doesn't contain more than five shirts and two trousers anyway, and shoves the bags right into the darkest corner. They are his secret to keep. Well, his and Dean's.

After that, the room feels too stuffy. Like suddenly all the air is sucked from it. Like Sam can only breathe with the memory of his brother lingering on every surface. He has to get out. Get out of here now. And before he knows it he's wearing his running shoes. The only thing he actually allowed himself to buy with the money he makes helping out at the diner once or twice a week. The only luxury he has. If he would buy anything else, it would feel like betraying his roots. Betraying Dean. More than he did already. He is so used to hand-me-down clothes and living from a minimum of things, he can't really get rid of it. Even though he has the possibility to.

Sam runs his usual route along the campus and through the park. When he finishes it, he doesn't feel satisfied. he knows what he needs. He needs to run run run. As far as he possibly can. Until his brain can't focus on anything but the pain in his joints, the burning in his muscles and the lack of oxygen. Until he is dizzy and feels like dying. Running like this, running himself past exhaustion, has become a thing for him lately. It replaces the scratching and not eating. Most of the time.

So he changes his direction. Runs the other way right along the interstate, cars rushing past him with a murderous speed. It makes him think of how Dean can drive over two state lines in less than seven hours. He speeds up. This is exactly what he did not want to think about. Fucking hell. And in the end, it works. In the end the pain in his legs fades down everything else he feels or thinks. In the end, he forgets he has to turn around and run back at some point. When he does so, he's run himself way past what any human should be capable of performing physically.

But he pushes himself, pushes and pushes and doesn't realize it's too late until he's almost back at the campus again. His brain swims and his vision blurres around the edges. He almost doesn't have enough time to react when his stomach clenches and doubles over. Just in time he makes it to the bushes growing on the side of the road and barfs. The stinging fluid is scratching up his throat and he realizes he still hasn't eaten anything today. He's not sure what time it is, but from how warm it has gotten he can tell he must have ran for at least two hours. Sam buckles over, hands on his knees to keep him from falling. He feels nauseous and shaky. His stomach is too empty and the feeling is so common it makes him sick all over again.

He promised Dean to stop this kind of shit. Promised him when his brother found out when he was in tenth grade. And he intends to keep this promise. Okay, sometimes he would slip up, but usually he would do good. Force himself to eat and sleep and drink. The running thing is the only time he disobeys his own promise. Sam gags one last time but nothing comes out. He's fine, he's fine. Just as he is about to straighten up a small hand on his shoulder makes him whirl around. Hunter reflexes. He never really got rid of them.

He has to look down a little to see what's in front of him. A tiny girl. Golden locks, blue eyes, thin waist, wide hips. "Hey, you okay?" she asks with a concerned look. Sam can just stare at her for a few seconds. It's stupid. So stupid, really. She wears a Led Zeppelin shirt. Old and faded, too big on her body. It's the exact shirt Dean used to worship for years. Until it literally fell apart during a hunt. Whenever Sam thinks of his brother that shirt is the most prominent thing he remembers after green eyes and freckles. He can still smell it when he closes his eyes real hard. Can still feel the hin fabric under his fingers like when he clawed at his brother's chest after a nightmare.

She wears Dean's shirt and it's selfish of him, but maybe that's why he decides to not just rudely shove her out of the way but actually answer her. "Uh. Yeah, um, I'm fine," he manages to break out and his brain is working on overdrive. He knows her from somewhere. Knows those curls. And that glint in her eyes. Like she's forever planning to make her next mischievious move. He knows it, he's seen her before. And then it klicks. It's Jess. That friend of Chris's. He brought her around several times. Usually just for a few minutes until he was finished putting on a jacket and then they'd leave again.

He looks at the girl again and it seems like she has a realization just at the same time. "Oh you're Chris's roomie!" she blurts out. Sam can do nothing but gulp and nod. Her shirt is still intimidating him too much to form a clear thought. "Uh, Sam, right?" she asks. Sam nods again.

"I'm Jess," she chirps. She seems so... happy all the time. "You probably don't remember me. I came by a couple of times but only." "I remember you," Sam finally manages to break out. Which only sounds a little creepy. Jesus, usually he's better with people. But Jess grins like it's the perfect thing to say. She reminds him a little of Dean and how he used to treat him when they were kids. Like everything he did was right and good. like he was the fucking golden boy and not his older brother.

"You sure you're okay?" she asks once again, "'Cause ya know, you look kinda pale." She's probably right. He feels pale. And he knows he has to get some food into his system. Even if it's just a fruit smoothie. Which is probably all he can stomach now anyway. So he decides to go with the half-truth. Play things down a little. He always was a good liar. "Yeah, maybe going for a run before breakfast wasn't the best idea. I could do with some food now," he smiles. It's forced and they both know it.

"Well, I could help you with that. I know a real good diner just around the blog," Jess says and all Sam can do is shrug a weak 'yes'. "Sure," he says. He's pretty sure he still hasn't convinced the girl he's fine but she doesn't say anything and he's thankful for it. While they make their way to the diner Sam tries to come up with an excuse for why he's only gonna take a smoothie and nothing to eat. He'll find one. He's a good liar after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Soso I'm very new to all this and this is my first ever Wincest fic and I hope you like it!!
> 
> The stories are loosely based on the quotes taken from the book “The Sea Is My Brother“ which contains letters written between Kerouac and his best friend. As you might've noticed, they're not in the right order, but I will put a year at the beginning of each chapter as soon as I know how many there will be.
> 
> So long... enjoy!
> 
> J.


End file.
